


here where the daylight begins

by addandsubtract



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Friendship, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-25
Updated: 2007-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:09:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addandsubtract/pseuds/addandsubtract
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan finishes the book two years, five months, and fourteen days after Panic ends. It takes up twelve black notebooks; each one is five inches by eight-and-a-half inches, with one hundred and twenty blank pages, unlined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	here where the daylight begins

**Author's Note:**

> alternate title: _the journey of ryan ross and what happened next_.
> 
> a future fic wherein ryan ross leaves panic and writes a novel. a quick word of warning - I took a few liberties with the publishing industry. I've never worked in publishing, and while I did my best to research, I wouldn't say that all the data herein is completely truthful to real life.

Ryan finishes the book two years, five months, and fourteen days after Panic ends. It takes up twelve black notebooks; each one is five inches by eight-and-a-half inches, with one hundred and twenty blank pages, unlined. He writes the whole first draft by hand, and it takes three black ball-point pens, the kind you can find in any office supplies closet, in any Staples store, in any college book store. He likes that, thinks about all the other hands that could have been using each particular pen, if only he’d waited two days before buying it. Thinks about every person with similar pens pressed to similar pages, and wonders, really, if he’s doubting himself enough.

He’s written lyrics for ten years. A novel, however, is something different.

+

He decides that he wants to call it _Temperance, or, the Journey of Johnny Wilson and What Happened Next_. It isn’t, actually, a children’s story, but. The whimsy is something he doesn’t use as often as he thinks that he possibly should.

He emails Spencer four and a half minutes after he puts his pen down, the final word on page eighty-six of book twelve.

 

**June 4th, 2:08 AM**

To: Spence (sjsv@pipeline.com)  
From: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)  
Cc:  
Subject: the you know what project

spence - 

I think I might be done.

\- ryan

His current apartment is one of those tragic places with no cell reception anywhere in the building, but reliable internet access. He’d call – maybe – except that it doesn’t seem worth it to wander down six flights of stairs to the sidewalk, especially given that Spencer might not actually be awake.

The downside being that he has to wait eight hours until Spencer checks his email to hear back.

**June 4th, 10:24 AM**

To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)  
From: Spencer (sjsv@pipeline.com)  
Cc:  
Subject: RE: the you know what project

Seriously? Are you ever going to let me read it?

Also, find an apartment with fucking cell reception. As I’m sure you haven’t actually stepped outside in over a week, you probably haven’t talked to anyone out loud in even longer.

Get some fucking fresh air.

Ryan snorts, and rolls his eyes, and thinks about making tea.

+

Panic’s last show was on December 21st, and it was good. It was a good show. 

It still wasn’t exactly enough.

+

Jon said, a week after,

“You should move up to Chicago, Ry. It would be awesome if you were in town.” He’d smiled earnestly in the way that Ryan still isn’t completely used to, but Ryan hadn’t thought he should rely on them as much as he was sure he had been.

“I was thinking of getting a place in New York,” he’d said, because, conceivably, New York was a place where people move. And he hadn’t thought he’d mind it, that much. “Rent some space, see what happens.”

Jon shrugged and nodded, “your choice, man. You know you’re always welcome to crash, right? Visit, whatever?”

“I know,” Ryan had said, and he could feel his mouth tilt to the side as he smiled. And he had known. It took him a long time, but he actually had.

+

It takes him another two months to type up the manuscript. He’s careful with his own writing, the words like a fragile frame of what he really wants to say – more latticework than a crisp outline.

He calls Spencer, sitting on the steps in front of his building.

“Spence,” he says, when he hears the phone pick up.

“Ryan,” Spencer says, his voice heavily sarcastic. “Nice to hear your actual voice for once, asshole. What’s up?”

“I don’t –” Ryan starts, and sighs. “Haven’t talked to you in awhile.”

“You haven’t talked to _anyone_ in awhile, dude. It’s been, like, a week. Jon was almost ready to start a search party – which, yeah, hard from Chicago. I think Pete secretly suspects that you’re actually dead.”

Ryan opens his mouth to defend himself, but Spencer cuts him off, a verbal eye roll clear in his tone.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Blah, blah, writing, blah, art. We get it. You’re a recluse. You’re still an asshole, though.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, biting his lower lip to keep the smile in. “I know.”

“Well, as long as we’ve got that straight.”

+

Finding a publisher is harder that it sounds when you’re Ryan Ross. Especially when you’re Ryan Ross.

He gets eight repetitions of the same thing – “it’s great, Mr. Ross, but it’s not exactly what we’re looking for right now.” He doesn’t think they’ve actually bothered to read it, and he hates being called Mr. Ross. Mr. Ross was his father. Ryan will never be Mr. Ross.

He decides on a pseudonym after that, George Morris, because it seems less like a lie than it might otherwise.

It takes another few months, but he’s at the Starbucks on the corner of his block when his phone vibrates in his pocket.

“Mr. Morris?” the woman on the other end asks, her voice somewhere between kind and authoritative.

“That’s me,” Ryan says. He’s jiggling his foot under the table, and he carefully sets his earl grey on the tabletop. The string from the tea bag is slowly dripping liquid onto the light wood.

“This is Jeanne Benson from Treehouse.” She stops, and he suspects that there’s something he should be saying, but he’s never been good at that part. It’s one of the things even time hasn’t changed.

“Um, yeah, hi,” he says, finally, looking at the scuffed toes of his shoes.

“Hi,” she says, a laugh in her voice. Ryan wonders if it’s directed at him. “I’m just calling to give you a heads up, really. You’ll get the real confirmation in the mail soon, but we thought you might want to hear that we’re interested in publishing your novel.”

“Really?” It’s out of Ryan’s mouth before he can think about confidence, professionalism.

“Yep. Really interested, actually.”

“Oh,” Ryan says. “Oh, wow. Um, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, and while it sounds genuine enough over the phone, Ryan knows that genuine doesn’t always mean what you’d think it does. “Just call any time to set up an appointment.”

“Thank you,” he says, again.

+

_Temperance_ isn’t about Panic, not like everyone is going to think it is, if, when, they find out that he wrote it. It’s not autobiographical. It isn’t his life, their lives, on paper in pretty prose, trying to sell what he used to be and can’t be anymore.

It isn’t, though, completely divorced from that. He’s not sure he knows how to be, really.

+

He emails his friends, the people he thinks count. He’s not sure if he has enough names, not sure who he’s leaving out. He knows who should be there, and who isn’t.

**November 14th, 5:56 PM**

To: Spence (sjsv@pipeline.com), Jon (rockonj@honestyunlimited.com), Pete (fobfan1@sixteencandles.net), Bren (seriouslybden@honestyunlimited.com)  
From: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)  
Cc:  
Subject: I swear I’ll stop talking about it eventually

guys – 

yeah yeah yeah, I haven’t called in awhile. soon, okay?

I thought you might want to know, I found a publisher. I even have my own pseudonym.

told you I could do it.

\- ryro

Spencer takes about twelve minutes to respond. Pete takes about four minutes longer. Ryan’s not exactly surprised; while Pete’s email goes directly to his phone, Spencer’s just gotten used to checking every few minutes. Ryan suspects that Spencer is more worried than he’s said.

**November 14th, 6:08 PM**

To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)  
From: Spencer (sjsv@pipeline.com)  
Cc: Jon (rockonj@honestyunlimited.com), Pete (fobfan1@sixteencandles.net), Brendon (seriouslybden@honestyunlimited.com)  
Subject: RE: I swear I’ll stop talking about it eventually

Never doubted you, dude.

**November 14th, 6:12 PM**

To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)  
From: Pete (fobfan1@sixteencandles.net)  
Cc: Jon (rockonj@honestyunlimited.com), Spencer (sjsv@pipeline.com), Brendon (seriouslybden@honestyunlimited.com)  
Subject: RE: I swear I’ll stop talking about it eventually

now you just have to tell us your name so we can make everyone go buy it

\- p

The thing is, Ryan doesn’t really want Pete’s help. He knows, he knows that Pete’s name, his opinion, actually means something, that his business talent has proven him even when no one except Patrick even considered it possible, but. Ryan doesn’t always want to be “that kid from Panic”, not to everyone else. Even if that who he’ll always be, in his head, to himself, that doesn’t mean it’s what he wants.

+

The thing about Fall Out Boy is that they didn’t really break up. They still haven’t – they get fancy terms like _indefinite hiatus_ , instead. Pete’s business endeavors just slowly took over until he didn’t have the time, and what else could they do? Replace their frontman? Patrick, Ryan knows, wasn’t ever really fine with it, not with giving up the music, but he’s found his niche in producing and studio musician work, and when they have all have a spare moment, he calls for a tour. He usually gets what he wants. Pete’s always been that way about Patrick.

+

Brendon, it turns out, has left him maybe sixteen texts since he sent out the email. Ryan isn’t sure whether to be surprised or impressed, so he settles on neither.

The first just says, _dude, i bet your book is so cool._

The second says, _can i read it please?_

The third continues in this trend, saying, _please pretty please?_

And then, the fourth, _if i ever write a book i promise i will let you read it first._

Ryan reads all sixteen, about half of which are just _please?_ or _seriously, you’re avoiding me, aren’t you?_

Ryan sends one in return, walking to subway. It says, shortly, _no,_ purposefully obscure.

+

Jon’s new band is something, in that way that means really fucking great and complicated to explain – according to Spencer, anyway, and years and years of experience have taught Ryan to trust Spencer’s word on things. Spencer calls him from Chicago, and says,

“Hey, so, Jon’s band.” Ryan is sitting at the table in his kitchen nook, the only real table in his entire apartment, and he’s got notebook ten spread out in front of him, almost halfway through. His ball-point pen is sticking out of his mouth, clenched between his teeth. Spencer’s voice is that half-excited, half-expressionless lilt that means he’s trying too hard not to hope – that something’s gone right and he doesn’t want to jinx it.

“Mm?” Ryan says around the pen. His walls are suspiciously blank. He thinks that he’s been here long enough that he should remedy that.

“I told you about it, right? Jon’s on bass, obviously, and he conned Tom into playing guitar. They picked up this total kid to play drums – his name’s Dave, he’s like, twenty, or something – and he’s pretty good. Like, you know. He’s pretty good.”

“Yeah?” Ryan says, pulling the pen out of his mouth. “Not you on drums?”

“Uh-uh,” Spencer says. “Jon asked me to manage.” Spencer says this like it’s something reverent, like it’s surprising that someone would leave organizational details up to him, surprising that they’d trust him with booking gigs and signings and keeping the accounts straight. Ryan’s just surprised it’s taken them this long.

“Really? That’s awesome, Spencer.” He means it, he does. “Who’s the vocalist?”

Spencer is silent for too long. Ryan doesn’t want to know, so he doesn’t think about it.

“Um,” Spencer says, “Tom and Jon are splitting back vocal duties, but. Well. Brendon’s singing.” Ryan holds in a breath until he’s counted to one, two, three, ten, seventeen, twenty, and then he lets it out. He’s not allowed to feel abandoned – he’s the one that left them. Jon asked, Jon _asked_. They are all there, and he’s here, and that was his _choice_. It doesn’t mean that he doesn’t know they’re all there, working on that band, without him.

“Do you have a name?”

“Well, normally, people call me Spencer,” Spencer says. Ryan just sighs.

“Okay, seriously. No.”

“Jon’s insisting the name be Honesty Unlimited.” Spencer’s voice has just that tentative edge he’d had when he’d said to Ryan, however many year ago, “do you think the drums would be fun?”

“Do it,” Ryan says.

+

Ryan, if asked, would say that the third album is his favorite. _A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out_ is too much of his own pain for him to handle in large doses – it’s hard remembering how vicious, how barbed every word is and how much he meant it.

_Like to Like_ is the only time Ryan can remember being hated for being happy. He remembers Keltie’s head on his shoulder, her hair curved under his jaw, and finally being able to smile in public and how he expected them to want him to laugh, how he’d thought happiness was the goal. Apparently not. Ryan doesn’t really like thinking about it much.

Spencer’s always told him he cares too much what other people think, and Ryan knows that it’s probably true, but he’s no worse than Brendon, and less in the forefront. _fourteen songs to use you by_ was his _fuck you_ , his musical _suck my cock_ to the rest of the world, and so this is the album he listens to when he feels nostalgic, slumped in his chair in the living room, his eyes closed, hands clasped together. _fourteen songs_ is the only time he’s ever said to himself, _it’s done, you’re done_ , and actually meant it in a satisfactory way. He suspects that it will never happen again.

By the time _colorburn and lightsoft_ came out he knew that he was almost through. Spencer knew, but then again, Spencer always knows. Maybe even before Ryan is aware, Spencer knows. Ryan thinks, though, that even Brendon saw it this time – he can still hear it in the tenor of his voice, and even if it’s Ryan fault, listening to it still makes him want to walk away.

+

Ryan calls Frank’s cell phone on Friday morning, November 18th, three days before he’s scheduled to have his first meeting with the publisher. Frank picks up mid-yawn.

“Can I talk to Gerard?” Ryan says, and Frank sighs. Ryan can’t exactly tell if he’s faking or not, but he’s done this enough to make assumptions, and he figures that Frank actually doesn’t mind. He’s never gotten around to getting Gerard’s cell phone number, and this method works often enough that he hasn’t bothered. He knows that he should, it just. It would seem too personal.

“What, I don’t even get a hello?” Frank asks. “I swear, you get ruder every time.”

“Hi, Frank,” he says. Frank laughs, and says, “See, now, was that so hard?”

“I guess not,” Ryan says. He pauses as he hears muttering in the background, shades of Gerard’s voice saying, “dude, Frank, give me the phone.”

“Yeah, yeah, Gerard, whatever,” Frank says, voice muffled and farther away.

“Hey, Ryan.” Gerard’s voice is all smile, like the wide exposure of white teeth.

“Hi, Gerard.” Ryan’s not sure exactly what to say next, but, thankfully, Gerard decides to help him out.

“So, what’s up? I haven’t talked to you in, what, two months?”

“Um,” Ryan says, and he thinks that, maybe, he should have found time to learn normal social skills – to stay in contact and reciprocate. He wonders if it’s too late. “I didn’t mean –”

“No, no, seriously. I _like_ hearing from you, Ryan. You should maybe do it more often, even.” Gerard says it like Ryan needs to be reminded, and. Maybe he does. Sometimes. Ryan bites his lips, sitting on the edge of his bed wearing jeans he’s had since that one semester of college and a shirt he stole from Spencer sometime during touring. It might have, at one point, belonged to Brendon or Jon.

“Okay,” Ryan says, curling his toes up in the hem of his pants and pulling his legs up until he’s sitting cross-legged. “Are you free sometime – I mean – if you wanted to –” Ryan takes a deep breath, makes an effort to stop, slow down, start over. “I mean. I know you guys are recording now, but if you wanted to, I have some free time, and human contact might be nice. Spencer’s always telling me that actual physical contact does wonders.”

“Spencer’s probably right. Want to come out to my house tomorrow? I can show you the new costume designs for the concept album.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, staring out the window to the street. My Chem is on album number eight. Somehow, Ryan’s not at all surprised that they’ve made it this far. “That would be really nice.”

+

The Gerard thing happened unexpectedly, maybe six months before the end, and Ryan still doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

“Hi,” Gerard had said, stopping next to Ryan. Ryan was sitting half offstage on one of the amps. Two hours until show time, and nowhere else to be.

“Hi,” Ryan had said, squinting up at Gerard, who wasn’t actually that much taller than him, and wasn’t that much wider, either. Slim and white, both of them. Gerard had smiled down at him, arms crossed over his chest, fingers tapping a rhythm against his own skin.

“Should I leave you alone?” Gerard has asked, and his grin had been mostly _it’s okay, you can tell me the truth_ and partially _do you know how hard it was for me to come over here?_ , and so Ryan had just said,

“Oh! No, don’t.” He’d scrubbed a hand through his sweaty hair, and Gerard had sat on the dirty stage, legs crossed beneath him.

And that had sort of been that.

+

Ryan’s never been up to see Jon and Brendon play – he knows it makes him a bad friend, but. There are some things he doesn’t really want to see, yet. He’ll get there, he’s sure. Probably.

“You should come out sometime,” Jon had said, the month before, “I haven’t actually seen you in six months, dude. Not since my housewarming party thing in March, and that hardly even counts.”

Ryan had winced. He’d spent half of the party avoiding people, and ended up hiding out in Jon’s new bedroom until the guests had left. Jon had let him stay in the bed, and they’d watched _Moulin Rouge_ for old time’s sake. Spencer had joined them about halfway through, pulling Brendon behind him, the two of them piling up, and sneaking under the covers.

“I’m sorry,” he’d said.

“Don’t feel guilty, Ryan,” Jon had said, in that way that meant _I know how you think, dude._ “There’s no point.”

“I know,” Ryan said. “Can’t help it.”

“Just – visit us, okay? Sometime soon.” There wasn’t any reproach in Jon’s voice, no _you’re a bad friend, Ryan_. It’s not that Ryan believes Jon would think it; it’s that he’s afraid it’s true anyway. 

+

Ryan remembers the performance after he finally decided he had to quit, it’s just that he remembers the sound check better. He’d been sitting on the edge of the stage, waiting for Jon and Brendon to catch up, and Spencer had sat next to him, nudging him with one shoulder. Ryan hadn’t said anything yet, but in his mind he was screaming it, and not sure how he could bear to do it, and terrified that they’d hate him when he told them. Not that they would, he knew, he did, even if he also knew that they kind of should. That they really should.

“Ryan,” Spencer had said, his voice the same quiet Ryan still hears in his head when he’s overwhelmed, calm water around the edges and steel in the center. Ryan leaned his head against Spencer’s shoulder, letting his hair, too-long and unwashed, fall over his forehead and into his eyes. He knew that Spencer wanted the answer, already knew the question, and was waiting for him.

“I – Spencer,” he’d started. “I’m sorry.” Spencer hadn’t needed him to say it, but Ryan had, and then, and then he’d said, “It’s just not right anymore. It’s not – I’m not unhappy, just – this isn’t. What I need.” He doesn’t say _even if I’ll always need you, and them, even if, I don’t need this band_ , because those are the kinds of words his throat closes around, and those are the words Spencer can read in his silences.

“Okay,” Spencer had said. Ryan had burrowed his nose into the crook of Spencer’s neck, and breathed out.

+

Gerard still lives out in Jersey, in a big house by himself. Half of Mikey’s stuff is there, and technically, Mikey’s name is also on the lease, but Mikey lives mostly at Frank’s anyway, so the house is almost completely filled with cats, overstuffed chairs, and near-finished paintings. Ryan isn’t sure who takes care of the cats while Gerard is touring – he’s not even sure if half of them have names.

“Hi,” Gerard says, opening the door. His smile is the same as his greeting, welcoming, and Ryan can feel his shoulders relax just slightly. It’s a Gerard thing, he thinks. Gerard understands him, his long silences and wandering glances, in a way that even Spencer possibly doesn’t.

“Um,” he says, sketching a wave. “Hi.”

“Come on in,” Gerard says, stepping back. Ryan toes off his shoes and leaves them in the front hallway – Gerard’s house rules – and follows Gerard into the kitchen, where there’s still the remains of a half-eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich on the island in the center. Gerard picks it up, looks at it, shrugs, and takes a bite. “Mmm,” he says, “melty peanut butter.” A grey cat butts at his legs, and Gerard just pushes at it with his foot, petting it as best he can with his toes.

“Why do I hang out with you again?” Ryan asks, both hands deep in the back pockets of his pants.

“Because your real friends live across the country,” Gerard replies, voice slightly muffled as he chews. “And I’m the best you could find on short notice.” Ryan can’t tell if he’s being serious, but it ends up not mattering, because Gerard winks at him and puts the sandwich back down on the counter. “Anyway, c’mon, I’ve got those designs to show you in the upstairs studio.”

+

Ryan leaves the house with a stern reminder from Gerard not to be a stranger, and a small painting of a girl in a green dress, her hands and face pressed to a pane of glass, looking out from the canvas. Her dark hair falls over one eye and the bridge of her nose, her expression wistful. Ryan walked by it four or five times before Gerard just turned to him, and said,

“Look, just take it. It’s not like I have much room for it in here anyway.”

“Really?” Ryan had asked – insecurity again, not that he could help it. Gerard had grinned at him.

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead. Just send me your novel when it comes out. I want to read it.”

+

Ryan hangs the painting on the blank wall across from his bed. He wakes up in the morning to the girl looking at him, and he finds it strangely comforting.

+

When he’d told them he was leaving, he’d said,

“You can replace me, I don’t mind,” and tried to keep his voice even. Brendon’s eyes had widened, and Jon had shook his head, and Spencer had said,

“I’m sorry; I don’t think we can do that.”

+

Ryan spends Tuesday in his bed, with papers spread all across the bedspread, rereading and editing, his purple editing pen hanging from his lips at a jaunty angle.

The meeting with Jeanne had gone better than he’d thought it was going to. He’d walked in the door, and pulled his hat farther down over his forehead, nodded at the receptionist, who told him to go right in, and shuffled awkwardly into her office.

It had taken her fifteen minutes to go,

“Wait, aren’t you that guy?” and he’d said, politely, that yes, he was, and that he really hoped that it wouldn’t matter, and she’d just said, “I won’t tell if you won’t,” with a smile on her face.

Ryan sort of wished that was everyone else’s reaction. 

+

It’s Pete’s fault, ultimately.

He’s actually slightly apologetic afterward, which is pretty unusual. Ryan still can’t help but be angry.

It’s an easy mistake to make – the interviewer asks, “So, have you been keeping in touch with the former members of Panic?”

And Pete, Pete talks for fifteen minutes about Jon and Brendon, Spencer’s new career, and then. And then, he says,

“Oh, and Rossy’s writing a book. He’s a weird one – not even publishing it under his own name. Won’t tell me the pseudonym, either. But, well, he said it would be out sometime next year, definitely, so keep a lookout. Maybe you’ll find it.” And then he smiles that Pete smile, like he hasn’t said anything that Ryan would mind.

“Seriously, Pete, what the fuck,” Ryan says to him on the phone – he’d followed the link Spencer sent him, watched the clip, and almost slid down the stairs in his haste to call Pete fucking Wentz.

“What did I do?”

“Oh, I don’t know, talk about me and my fucking book on national television?” Ryan is seething, which, of course, means that any expression in his voice has drained away, down the back of his throat, and settled in the pit of his stomach.

“Dude, no one’s going to know which is yours,” Pete’s voice is uncomprehending, and Ryan knows he’s being unreasonable, he just doesn’t really care.

“It doesn’t really matter, now they’re going to ask fucking questions about it. Oh, I am so happy I remembered not to tell you anything.” It’s not that he doesn’t want everyone to know, eventually. But he’s not ready yet, not yet.

“I’m sorry, dude; I didn’t realize it was that big a deal.” The thing is, this is Ryan. Everything is kind of a big deal.

This novel maybe more than anything else.

“It’s – okay,” Ryan says, “don’t worry about it.

+

Ryan doesn’t talk to anyone except Jeanne and the publishers for eight weeks and three days. He doesn’t actually realize it’s that long until later, when he sits at the kitchen table with his calendar and plots out the time he’s missed. He eats spaghetti-os and steamed broccoli about twice a day, sits on his bed with his computer open, drinking cup after cup of over-steeped tea, and editing. Sometimes, he sleeps.

On the fourth day, Ryan is woken up when someone knocks on his door. He’s fallen asleep on top of his covers, his laptop still open about six inches in front of his face. The screen saver is a slideshow of all his pictures – Spencer with his arm around Brendon and Ryan’s shoulders, the late Hemmy licking Pete’s face, Jon and Tom completely shitfaced outside some parking lot in south Chicago.

The knock comes again, and Ryan rolls out of bed, stumbling down the hall in his pajama pants and oversized t-shirt. He scrubs a hand through his hair, yawns, and pulls open the door.

“Dude,” Gerard says, eyebrows arched in away that clearly broadcasts _I am not amused_ , “do you know how hard it is to find your fucking address? I had to get call Frank to get Mikey, ask Mikey to call Pete, and then ask Pete to give me Spencer’s number. Why is Spencer the only person on the planet who knows your street address? Also, he’s afraid that you died.”

“Spencer is my secret keeper,” Ryan says, “and he’s not actually afraid I died, he’s just mad I haven’t talked to him in however long it’s been.” Ryan pauses for a second. “What day is today?”

“January twenty second,” Gerard says. “It’s next year, in case you didn’t notice. You fucking missed Christmas. And New Years!” Gerard sounds angry and also partially amused – Ryan thinks he might understand the loss of time to art, but Ryan wonders if Gerard ever forgot to wish his band a happy new year. A mixture of something like guilt and dread settles in the pit of his stomach, churning in his stomach like nausea. There’s nothing he can do about it now, though. “Are you going to let me into your apartment?” Gerard asks, and, yes, definitely amusement in his voice, and maybe even a little worry.

“Oh, yeah,” Ryan says, and steps back enough that Gerard can come in. He shuts the door behind him. “I haven’t seen you since, what, the beginning of November?” Ryan actually does think that this is a long time. If he’d actually been completely aware of the passing of days, he might have actually called someone. One never knew.

“Um, Ryan? You haven’t picked up your phone _or_ checked your email since, like, November twentieth. And why don’t you have a landline?”

“I don’t really like the phone that much,” Ryan says with a shrug. “It’s very distracting.

“Oh,” Gerard says, rolling his eyes. “So, basically, if you die in the shower one day, you don’t want anyone to know until they open the door and find your corpse rotting on the bathroom floor. Very dramatic, I’ll give you that.” Gerard says it with some admiration, and Ryan thinks it’s Gerard’s morbid sensibility getting in the way. Finally, Gerard sighs. “Why do you only have cans of spaghetti-os in your kitchen?”

Ryan rubs one hand over his face. “They’re easy to cook.”

“Okay, just checking,” Gerard says. “Now get dressed; we’re going food shopping.”

+

Brendon gave up on texting halfway through December. He’d managed to send eighty six texts during that space of time, but Ryan doesn’t bother to read them all. The last is on December thirteenth, which happened to be a Friday, at 5:06 AM. It says, 

_Jesus fuck, Ryan_

and that’s it. Ryan thinks that Brendon may have been angry with him.

+

It takes Gerard forty five minutes in the grocery store to be satisfied that Ryan a. is not going to die of malnourishment, b. has all the major food groups, and c. knows that he is a big asshole. Ryan already knows that part. He follows behind Gerard and tries to keep quiet.

“How Spencer let this go on as long as it did I’ll never know,” Gerard says.

“Spencer’s in Chicago dealing with managing Jon and Brendon’s new band,” Ryan says. “He’s busy.” It’s the first thing he’s said since they left the apartment.

“Oh, I know,” Gerard says, pushing the shopping cart with one hand and grabbing a can of pineapples with the other, “Spencer made friends with Brian – I think they bond over dealing with crazy people on a regular basis. I just wanted to see if I could get you to talk. Insulting your best friend seemed like the easiest way.”

“And you say _I’m_ a big asshole.”

“Hey, at least when I was a recluse from the world, my brother knew I was alive, and maybe even eating.”

Ryan does think that he has kind of a point.

+

Gerard pushes Ryan through the kitchen doorway, out into the hallway, his hands solid and warm on Ryan’s shoulder blades. Ryan has to consciously remember not to lean into it – it’s been more than two months since anyone touched him, and maybe that’s part of it, but part of it is also Gerard. The thought doesn’t disconcert him as much as it probably should. Gerard says,

“Go, call your band. I’ll put away your groceries.”

Ryan doesn’t say that maybe Gerard won’t know where to put everything, and he doesn’t say thank you. He doesn’t say that maybe he’s grateful. He doesn’t say anything, just looks over his shoulder. Gerard pulls his hands away and smiles, heading toward the kitchen.

“I promise you that I don’t mind.”

Downstairs and outside, Ryan looks at the display of his cell phone. He’s forgotten his jacket, and the wind brushes against his bare arms, chilling his skin. Obviously, he has to call Spencer first. Spencer hasn’t been actively mad at Ryan in a long time and – Ryan doesn’t want him to be now. It’s probably too late for that.

Spencer picks up halfway through the second ring.

“You _asshole_ ,” Spencer says, traces of resentment and anger and a shade of awe in his voice. Only hints, just tinges of emotion around the edges of his words, but Ryan has made an art of Spencer translation. He tries not to feel the vague relief that floods through him – Spencer misses him, Spencer needs him, and he knows he shouldn’t doubt it after so many years. Sometimes he can’t help it.

“Hi,” Ryan says. He means _I’m sorry_ , but he can’t make himself say it. He hopes that Spencer knows anyway.

“You’re emotionally retarded, you know that?” Spencer is angry with him, but it’s battling with relief, and Ryan doesn’t think he’ll last long against it.

“I know.” He means _the problem is, I need you too much_ , but he doesn’t say it. He’s never said it. He’s pretty sure that Spencer knows, almost positive that Jon does, and it’s not that he thinks they’ll mind, that he thinks they _do_ mind, it’s that it’s wrong of him to need in the first place.

They shouldn’t have to take care of him.

“Just don’t do it again,” Spencer says.

“I’ll try.” Ryan’s making no promises.

+

When he gets off the phone with Brendon (“Sometimes – God, sometimes I _hate_ you, Ryan Ross”), and Jon (“If I don’t see you, in person, _before_ the release of your fucking book, I’m coming up there and kidnapping you.”), he texts Pete. Pete doesn’t actually like talking on the phone that much, just texting. He says that writing the words is easier than saying them. Ryan tends to agree with him. Sometimes, when he’s writing, he can say all the things he’s unable to say out loud.

_i’m not dead_ , he sends, still sitting on the steps outside his apartment building. It’s still cold and getting colder, but he still doesn’t get cell reception in his building, and this is more important than the cold, so he shivers, waiting for Pete’s response.

_u done bein mad at me then_ , Pete asks, two minutes later. Despite the lack of punctuation, Ryan knows that it is, actually, a serious question – he’s good enough at Pete-speak to know – he just doesn’t understand why Pete is asking at all. He stares at the letters, confused, like they’ll suddenly reveal themselves to him.

_mad?_ he asks back, figuring that if Pete’s been with Patrick anytime in the past twelve hours, he might actually get a straight answer.

_the interview thing_ , is Pete’s response. _Oh_ , Ryan thinks, _oh_. He is a really, really bad friend.

_no, no, pete, i wasn’t mad. just reclusive,_ he says. When Pete doesn’t respond in the first six minutes, Ryan sends off another text, his fingers starting to hurt from the cold, freezing up at the joints. He wishes that he hadn’t forgotten a coat. _i’m a really bad person,_ he sends, and he believes that, in some ways at least, it’s mostly true.

_not any worse than me,_ Pete sends. Ryan doubts that, but knows better than to say so to Pete, who will actually argue about it with him.

_sorry,_ Ryan says instead, and somehow it’s easier to type than it ever is to say aloud.

_i should probably have listened to spence when he said u were just dumb_ , is Pete’s only response.

Ryan will be better, he will.

+

Ryan’s shivering when he closes the door to his apartment, fingers pushed deep into the pockets of his jeans, his arms bare against the cold.

Gerard looks over his shoulder from the kitchen, cooking something on the stove, and does a double take.

“Jesus Christ, Ryan, are you completely mentally deficient? Or do you just care that little about your health?” Ryan shrugs. Neither, actually, he just hasn’t talked to anyone important in over two months, and that, apparently, makes people angry with him. “Okay, this is not Vegas, dumbass, it’s New York in January.”

“I know,” Ryan says, the words shaking slightly with the vibrations from his chattering teeth. “Just didn’t think about it. Had to call Spencer.”

Gerard rolls his eyes. “Like he’d be happy if you froze to death trying to apologize to him.”

“Maybe,” is all Ryan says.

“Okay, definitely mentally deficient,” Gerard says, decisively, turning off the stove and grabbing Ryan by the shoulders, steering him into the kitchen.

“Pete thought I was mad at him,” Ryan confesses, drinking in the warmth from Gerard’s hands as he pushes Ryan into one of the chairs in the kitchen nook.

“Only because he’s almost as dumb as you are,” Gerard says. Gerard would probably know – the first few months after Mikey’s divorce from Alicia, Pete was in New Jersey on and off every few weeks. Pete’s a good friend, Ryan knows, just a little much to handle, sometimes. Gerard pulls away, and Ryan holds in a protesting noise in the back of his throat, half-formed, and swallows it back down – he can feel the residual warmth across his shoulders, the dip of his collarbones where Gerard’s thumbs were. Gerard spoons what appears to be macaroni and cheese into one of Ryan’s miscellaneous, miss-matched bowls, and doesn’t seem to notice.

“Not that dumb,” Ryan says eventually, still shivering slightly, “and thanks for cooking.” Gerard sets the bowl in front of Ryan, and then sits across from him at the table, his smile almost rueful.

“This is about the extent of my cooking abilities, I assure you.”

Ryan doesn’t say anything, just sticks a spoonful of macaroni into his mouth.

+

Ryan wakes up on the couch sometime after eleven the next morning with a blanket spread across his legs, wearing Gerard’s grayish-black hoodie. There’s a yellow post-it on the coffee table in Gerard’s tiny, spiky handwriting, proclaiming,

_ryan –_

_sorry, had to take off – recording in about an hour. please give me my sweatshirt back at some point not in two months. sooner would be better._

_no falling of the face of the earth._

_– gee_

There’s another post-it stuck next to the first, just a small pen sketch of his face, the hood of Gerard’s sweatshirt pulled up around his ears, hair falling across his forehead. It’s possibly Ryan’s favorite picture of himself – he looks vulnerable, maybe even delicate, and younger than he has in seven or eight years – maybe he should ask Gerard to design the cover of his book.

+

Sometimes, when Ryan looks at himself in the mirror, it’s like nothing has changed. They were so young in the beginning that even after ten years there are no wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth, and his hair is thick and brown and maybe a little cleaner under his fingers. His collarbones and shoulder blades and hip bones still jut just a little too much, and he still doesn’t smile enough. Sometimes when he looks in the mirror, Ryan wonders if he’s made up all the intervening years, and that maybe in two weeks he has to go back on tour, or back to the studio.

Luckily, the illusion doesn’t last long.

+

Ryan finally gets around to visiting Chicago after another three weeks, when Jeanne tells him,

“Ryan, seriously, we have it under control. Go do non-book things for a while, okay?” leaving Ryan at a loss.

“Dude,” Jon says, when Ryan calls him, “I was totally serious. You’re not getting out of it.” Ryan’s been in close contact with all of them, checking in every few days, but Jon still sounds determined.

“Okay,” Ryan says. “I’ll come up on Tuesday.”

“And stay until at least Thursday,” Jon pushes, a raised eyebrow in his voice.

“Until Friday,” Ryan says. Jon makes a satisfied noise, and Ryan tries not to feel too proud of himself, too much of _I did that, I did something right_.

Ryan doesn’t call the airport, just books his reservations online. He pauses, and then decides to stay until Saturday morning.

+

Ryan still hasn’t given back Gerard’s sweatshirt. He’s actually been wearing it more and more often, around the house, to the Starbucks, and once, even, to his publisher’s office. He should really give it back, he knows that he should, but he likes it. It’s comfortable. Comforting, maybe.

He wears it on the plane to Chicago, pulling the brim of his hat down over his forehead and tugging the hood more firmly around his ears. It’s been almost three years since Panic broke up, but that doesn’t stop Ryan from being recognized every once in awhile. He’d rather not have to deal with it in the airport, where he’s also trying not to freak out about the close quarters and leaving the book up to the publishers and seeing his band. It shouldn’t make him nervous but – there’s a reason he hasn’t seen them in over six months. He’s afraid that he’s going to be put in a room with them and not have the strength to leave again.

He puts his bag on the conveyor belt and steps through the metal detectors (he refuses to check his baggage, would rather have control over it at all times than not have to schlep it around with him), and waits for the attendant to give him the go ahead.

“Boarding pass, sir,” the woman says in a bored voice, raising her eyebrows at him, eyes half-lidded in disdain. Ryan holds out his e-ticket for her to see, and with a quirk of her lips, she motions him past.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, snagging his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He stuffs his fingers into the pocket of the hoodie, reminding himself through touch where he’s from and why he should go back.

Three hundred feet and seven gates past the security checkpoint, and he’s on his way.

+

Spencer is sitting at the gate when Ryan walks off the plane, his legs crossed at the knee, and a copy of _Rollingstone_ open on his lap. Ryan stalls next to the check-in booth, stopping suddenly enough that he disrupts the business man behind him, earning himself a grunt and a glare. Spencer hasn’t seen him yet, flipping to the next page of whatever article he’s reading, but he will soon. Ryan sucks a breath through his teeth, the hiss it makes loud to his ears, and he digs his fingers further into the pocket of Gerard’s hoodie, making himself step forward.

“Spence,” he says, and automatically dislikes the tone of his voice. Too low, too breathy, too delicate. He stops in front of Spencer’s knees, glancing down at the magazine in Spencer’s lap – the picture is of Brendon and Jon, Tom and that kid, Dave. The quote in the margin says, “We all kind of wanted something new – Ryan just needed something else entirely. – Jon Walker” It’s funny seeing his name in a magazine after so long, but he can’t expect them not to talk about him. Half the world blames Ryan for the fact that Panic broke up, anyway. Ryan just doesn’t care about them.

Also, it’s not precisely true that Ryan doesn’t need the music anymore. Not precisely.

“You know, I could ignore you for two weeks and it still wouldn’t be reparations for the all trouble you put us through,” Spencer says, but there’s a smile in his voice, so Ryan knows that he’s not exactly serious.

“You couldn’t do it,” Ryan says, and wishes that his voice were more firm.

“Probably not,” Spencer agrees, “but you’d still deserve it.”

“Yeah,” Ryan says, “I know.” He really, really does.

Spencer looks up, then, and smiles the secret smile he saves for Ryan, for all those times when Ryan came to his house slightly bruised, visible or not. The breath catches in Ryan’s throat, and he lets himself smile back. He’s missed them. Missed Spencer. Spencer shrugs like he’s saying _yeah, we missed you too, in case you couldn’t tell_.

Ryan may not always remember, but he can tell.

+

Spencer’s living full time in Chicago now, staying near the band, his new band. The thought hurts less than Ryan thinks it’s going to, mostly because Spencer, at least, isn’t precisely band so much as family – maybe something else entirely. Ryan figures that it’s Spencer’s due for putting up with Ryan for so long.

Brendon hasn’t really moved to Chicago, but he lives there all the time, anyway. He doesn’t actually have an apartment; he’s let the lease run out on his room in Vegas, and put ninety percent of his stuff in storage, crashing semi-permanently in Spencer’s spare bedroom, with the remaining ten percent of his possessions strewn out across the floor. Brendon doesn’t pay rent – instead, he buys his own groceries and keeps the kitchen clean mostly of his own accord, just to keep things even. Ryan would bet that Spencer likes having Brendon around enough not to care anyway, but that he also doesn’t mind getting out of doing the dishes. He would also bet that Spencer would, under no circumstances, admit it.

“Yay!” Brendon says instead of _hello_ when Spencer pushes the front door open. Ryan has his bag slung over his shoulder, following Spencer up three flights of hard wood stairs, and he stops slightly outside the open doorway. The living room is bright, sunny, with large windows facing out onto the street. Ryan can only just see down the hall – the doors of the bedrooms are half open, the bathroom down at the end. The kitchen is to the left of the door, connected to the large common room.

“It’s nice,” Ryan says, stepping onto the beige carpet. He can feel it sink under the weight of his shoes. “Your apartment, I mean. It’s really nice.”

“I know,” Spencer says, and even though he’s facing away, Ryan knows that he’s smiling. “Thanks.”

Brendon is on the couch, looking over his shoulder, and is clearly not disturbed by the fact that neither of them have responded to him. He’s had a lot of time to get used to it. 

“Also, I live here, which makes it better,” he says, waggling his eyebrows self-deprecatingly.

“Hi, Brendon,” Ryan says, putting his bag on the floor behind the couch.

“Hey,” Brendon says, grin widening. “Glad to see that Gerard managed to keep you alive.”

“He’s kind of good at that, actually,” Ryan says, picking at the hem of Gerard’s sweatshirt with his fingers. 

“Yeah,” Spencer says, “I know. That’s why I trusted him with your address. Now c’mon, we have to meet Jon in, like, twenty minutes.”

+

They manage to leave the apartment only after Brendon almost suffocates Ryan, hugging him for more than thirty seconds and probably squeezing as hard as he possibly can.

“Ow,” Ryan says in the car. Spencer is driving mostly because Ryan doesn’t have a car, and Brendon’s musical taste makes their ears bleed. Also, Spencer is just the kind of control freak who slams on imaginary brakes whenever he’s not behind the wheel.

“See, all that time away from us has made you weak, Ryan Ross. You are weak in the face of hugging. I am disappointed in you.” Brendon tsks from the backseat, and Ryan rolls his eyes. He’s had an almost constant sense of deja vu since entering Spencer’s apartment, and it’s not unpleasant, but it’s not exactly comfortable, either. More like falling into old patterns.

“Whatever.” Ryan shakes his head, and Brendon sighs in what sounds like pity.

“If I lived like you, Ryan, I’d probably shrivel up and die.” Ryan thinks that this is probably true.

“That’s why you aren’t me,” Ryan says, turning in his seat to look back at Brendon. Spencer snorts, keeping his eyes on the road in front of him.

“One of you is quite enough, Ryan.”

This, though, this is definitely true.

+

Jon meets them at the studio, and Ryan figures that he should’ve known. Tom is sitting in the back of the room, on the hardwood floor with his back to the whitewashed wall. The scowl on his face makes Ryan think that he’s somehow uncomfortable with their intimacy and tired of it, and maybe a little jealous. Ryan knows how he feels. Tom nods in his direction, just extending his chin more than anything else.

“Ross,” he says, his voice gruff and low in his throat.

“Conrad,” Ryan replies, stuffing his hands in his back pockets. “Nice to see you.” Tom shrugs, but the corner of his mouth tilts to the side and up, half a smile.

“We wanted you to hear,” Brendon says from the entranceway, looking at Spencer as if for approval. Spencer nods. Dave, the drummer, comes out of the hall with a can of coke in one hand, and he extends the other to Ryan.

“Left handed?” Ryan asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Sure, sometimes,” Dave says, smiling.

Ryan says, “nice to meet you,” and even mostly means it, so when Dave ducks his head and grins like maybe that means something, he doesn’t feel bad.

“Likewise, for sure.” Spencer steers Dave with a hand on the back of his neck, and Tom stands, grabbing his acoustic from where it’s leaning in the corner.

“We’re playing, yeah?” he asks. The question is mostly directed at Jon, and Jon nods, and then, they are.

They’re good – it’s all that Ryan can think, at first. It’s different music – different writers and a different sound – Brendon’s piano is upbeat and staccato, sharp notes that hang in the air for minute seconds before decaying completely, and his voice is the same, but the words are so much broader and farther apart. He lets them scoop down low and wind their way back up, following them back to the melody. Jon and Tom stand side by side, comfortable, and Ryan watches the way Tom looks at Jon’s fingers on his bass, the way Tom’s hands are steady and clean against the strings, the way he bites his lip and doesn’t look at his own playing. He’s confident in his fingers and ears and muscle memory, and he closes his eyes as he leans back. Jon is grinning at Ryan, bobbing his head in time with the music that is possibly more his this time around. There’s more of him in it, anyway.

“Good, right?” Spencer asks against his ear, leaning his chin on Ryan’s shoulder, one hand curled up in the sweatshirt. Ryan can feel the pads of Spencer’s fingertips against his shoulder blade. Ryan presses his nose into the hair at the top of Spencer’s head, smelling the strawberry vanilla of his shampoo. 

“Fucking good, Spencer,” he says, quiet, but he knows that Spencer hears him. “Fucking _good_.”

+

Somehow, Ryan ends up lying on his back on the sofa bed in the guest room of Jon’s apartment, Tom’s fingers sliding up under his shirt, Tom’s thighs on either side of his hips. They’ve been partying since they got back from the studio, Brendon dancing on the table in the living room, Jon trying to run damage control while Spencer watches from the couch, nursing his drink, relaxed smile curled up over his lips. Ryan doesn’t think they’ll notice for a little while longer. Ryan hasn’t had sex for somewhere close to a year, not since his last girlfriend broke up with him, and so he can’t help squirming at the weight pressed against him, pleasant and just this side of too heavy.

He’s slightly tipsy, light headed with alcohol he hasn’t touched since their last tour, almost three years ago. The back of his mouth tastes slightly sour, like whiskey, and he breathes through his nose when Tom’s fingernails skid up over his rib cage, bunching up the loose cotton fabric. Gerard’s sweatshirt is on the floor somewhere, and Tom’s tongue is sliding up his neck, teeth against the juncture of neck and jaw, lips just under his ear. Ryan shudders, makes a shunted noise in the back of his throat, and Tom pulls back, looks down at him with hazy eyes. Tom is drunker than he is.

“Ryan Ross,” Tom says, lips curling up in a smile that is almost nice, almost pleasant, his hair swooping down over one eye, and Ryan uncurls his fingers from where he discovers them fisted in the sheets, wrapping one in the collar of Tom’s shirt and the other around the back of his head, pulling him in. Tom’s hair is soft and slightly dirty under his fingertips, and he lets himself be pulled, his fingers pushing Ryan’s shirt all the way up to his armpits. Tom understands, Ryan thinks. Tom knows what it’s like, being _not_ in a band anymore. Tom is in _Ryan’s_ band. Also, Tom’s pretty mouth is pouting as he leans in, and Ryan can feel the warmth of his skin under the thin fabric of his shirt.

“That’s me,” Ryan says, voice quiet and cool. Tom laughs, but Ryan doesn’t care, because Tom’s fingers are brushing over his stomach, leaving his shirt bunched and useless, pooled over his collarbones, and Tom’s hair is in his eyes, and Ryan is feeling pretty good.

“Yeah, kid,” Tom says, voice soft, slurring just slightly, and kisses him. Ryan doesn’t even mind the condescension – he’s thirty, not a kid anymore – just pushes his hips up and lets it all go.

+

Ryan is up early the next morning. Tom’s gone, but Ryan actually doesn’t care – he’s too relaxed and loose and well-used. He just pulls on his pants and sweatshirt and wanders back into Jon’s living room.

Spencer is asleep on the couch in the same clothes he was wearing the night before, with Brendon half draped over him and half falling off. Brendon makes a small noise as Ryan passes, shifting a little, but despite his precarious position, he just curls his fingers more firmly into the belt loops of Spencer’s pants. Ryan raises his eyebrows, decides he doesn’t care, and goes to make himself some tea. Jon’s bedroom door is open, so after Ryan fills the teakettle with hot water and turns on the gas stove, he checks in. Jon is reading the newspaper, lying with his head by the foot of his bed, the comics section spread out in front of him.

“Morning,” Ryan says, his voice low and rough. Jon looks up with a grin.

“Hey,” he says, pausing just momentarily before asking, “Tom? Really?” Ryan shrugs.

“Not really. Just – it was fun.” Which is mostly true, although not exactly. Ryan doesn’t know how to explain the way Tom understands. Tom knows all about not fitting where he’s been placed, about not knowing _where_ he fits, and that’s maybe something that Ryan needs.

“Okay,” Jon says, and that’s about that. Sometimes Ryan appreciates how collected Jon can be. Sometimes he doesn’t. This situation is the former.

“Besides,” Ryan says, pulling the sweatshirt sleeves down over his fingers, “I think I have a crush on Gerard.” His voice is as even as ever, but he’s not really looking Jon in the eyes so much.

“Really?” Jon doesn’t sound incredulous, or skeptical, just slightly surprised. Ryan wonders if he should have waited, and talked to Spencer about this first.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s a little sad. I’ve been wearing his sweatshirt around all the time.” He pauses. “I should probably give it back.”

“I can’t say I ever pegged you for the sappy type,” Jon says, and Ryan collapses onto the bed next to him with a slight thump.

“Clearly –”

“You haven’t known him long enough,” Spencer finishes from the doorway, hair ruffled and shirt slightly askew. “Your tea water woke us up.”

“Sorry,” Ryan says, shifting until he’s on his stomach, chin propped on his hands.

“Wouldn’t have wanted to miss the moment,” Spencer says. “And, yes, you should probably give it back. And also wash it first.”

“What did I miss?” Brendon calls from the living room.

“Nothing,” Spencer and Ryan say at the same time, sharing a look. Jon laughs.

+

Slumped on the floor with his back to the wall, Ryan watches them practice and itches for a pen and paper. He doesn’t know what the words will come out like – song lyrics or measured prose or just the complicated, messy inside of his own head – but Brendon is singing with his eyes closed like he’s concentrating on making the words fit the right way, and Jon is leaning against the piano for support, and Tom is biting his lower lip, nose ring gleaming in the bright fluorescent lighting. Ryan drums his fingers on his thigh, impatient, and closes his eyes.

Later, when they file out of the studio, Tom winks at Ryan as he passes, sort of a _hey, thanks_ and sort of a _maybe, you know, if you want_ , and Ryan doesn’t respond, just shrugs his shoulders.

Ryan thinks about Gerard’s hands and the warmth of his fingertips, thinks _maybe, but probably not_. 

+

Ryan goes back on Saturday, and they all accompany him to the airport. Brendon and Jon say goodbye from the car. Brendon stuffs an unopened bag of gummi bears into Ryan’s backpack, his voice trailing into,

“What if your blood sugar gets low, Ryan? What then?” in his best mother hen voice – his smile gives him away, not that Ryan wouldn’t have seen through it otherwise. Ryan calls Brendon a tool, and considers them even. He sits through hugs from both of them, and while his fingers itch just to get back into the car and _stay_ , he knows that would be a bad idea. Instead, he digs his fingernails into his palms and stays still. They would let him drop everything in New York and stay here with them, but Ryan’s too stubborn for that. He has three months until his book is published. He has to wash and give back Gerard’s sweatshirt.

Spencer accompanies him to security, walking close enough that their shoulders touch, wrists brushing.

“Less radio silence this time around, okay, Ry?” Spencer says as they stop in front of Terminal A, and Ryan can hear the threat in his voice, the _seriously, I have ins with My Chem, and not just Gerard, and they actually live near you_ , and he knows to respect it as best he can.

“Sure,” he says, and Spencer rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment. “I mean it, Spencer. I’ll try.”

Spencer sighs and runs one hand through his hair. “I just don’t understand why –” he starts, and then cuts himself off. This is something they’ve agreed not to talk about anymore. He means _I just don’t understand why you can’t do this with us, near us_ , but Ryan’s answer is that same as ever. They are the pattern he can’t fall back into, not even if he wants to. “Never mind,” Spencer says.

“Don’t be mad,” Ryan says, shifting so his bag is hiked up higher on his arm.

“Not mad,” Spencer says, leaning in so he can perch his sharp chin on the ridge of Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan thinks about them as kids, as teenagers, as adults. Somehow the dynamic hasn’t changed as much as he would have thought.

The thought fills him with relief.

+

After Ryan gets back into his apartment, he throws his clothing in the wash (including the well-worn sweatshirt), and goes outside to call Frank.

“Hello?” The voice is rough, and molasses thick with sleep, and not Frank.

“Hi, Mikey,” Ryan says. “You’re not Frank.”

“Not usually,” Mikey says, and Ryan can hear him shifting. “He’s, hm, I think he’s in the shower.

“Okay. Sorry I woke you up.” Ryan realizes that it’s still in the actual AM hours of the day, and that they were probably in the studio until late.

“S’ok,” Mikey says, and yawns, “Gerard’s not here though. At his house, I think.”

“I figured. I actually wasn’t calling for him this time, anyway. Think you could help me out with something?”

“Does it involve much thought? I usually reserve thinking for after I’ve had caffeine.” Mikey makes a vague stretching noise, exhaling air against the receiver.

“Not really. I just, um. I need Gerard’s address.” Ryan bites his lip and looks out across the street, watching people stop in the 7-11 on the opposite corner. “Preferably without him knowing I have it.”

“Why?” Mikey asks, the hint of suspicion in his voice. Ryan thinks that this is why it would’ve been easier to get it from Frank. Less protective brother instincts. Ryan doesn’t know Mikey all that well, but he’s pretty sure that these are the kind of instincts that go marrow-deep.

“It’s – actually a surprise. I promise there’re no explosives involved.”

“Mm,” Mikey says, “’kay.”

“Thanks. Also, maybe give me his cell number? I feel a little bad for calling Frank all the time.”

“Fuckin’ finally,” Mikey says, a smile in his voice. “Took you fucking long enough. Frank will be so heartbroken.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Ryan Ross – heartbreaker.” Ryan snorts, rolling his eyes, despite the fact that there’s no one around to see it.

“Hey, you never know,” Mikey says, yawning again. Ryan smiles to himself, tapping his foot against the concrete.

“I guess not.”

+

Ryan carefully folds Gerard’s sweatshirt, putting it in the box on his floor. He looks over the sheaf of papers sitting on the coffee table next to him and runs his fingers through his hair, before placing them carefully on top of the sweatshirt. He’s scribbled a note long enough to take up two post-its, sticking them on the top page.

_Gerard_ , the note says,

_Here’s your sweatshirt back – sorry for borrowing it for so long. It’s really comfortable. Enclosed is the first chapter of the book. We’re not done editing everything yet, but I think it’s finished enough for you to take a look at it. If you want. You don’t have to._

There’s two lines scratched out in thick black pen, that previously read, _I hope you like it. If you read it, I mean._

In the bottom corner, he’s signed it,

_Ryan_.

+

He gets a manila envelope in the mail eight days later, with no return address attached. There are only four or five people who actually know where he lives, so his mail is limited to bills most days. He sits down at the table in the kitchen nook, and pops open the metal tabs, lifting the flap on the envelope. Inside, he finds a plastic folder the size of a sheet of printer paper and a folded piece of lined notebook paper.

Unfolded, the notebook paper is just a note. It says,

_ryan,_

_your writing makes me want to draw. send me more chapters._

_gee_

Ryan brushes his fingers over the familiar handwriting, before sliding the folder closer, and flipping it open.

Inside is another note, and a drawing on a sheet of unlined paper. The note just says, _I’m not sure if this is what you meant, but_ , and the drawing. The drawing is a boy sitting on the front porch of an old house – one of those wood paneled, shingle-roofed houses with wraparound porches, faded blue paint and a swing to the left of the front door. The boy’s feet are on the front steps, and he’s propping his elbow on his knee, his chin on his palm, his expression half bored and half wistful. What makes Ryan bite his lip, though, are the wings that arch gracefully from behind his back, mottled light brown and white. Smaller than Ryan imagined, maybe, but the picture is the soft colors of faded memory, light blues and browns and greens. It’s not Gerard’s normal aesthetic – not blood and guts enough, not darkly gothic enough – it’s still his hand and his art, though, still sharply angled lines and swaths of faded watercolor. Ryan wants this for every scene, wants paintings to narrate his text, to show what he can’t with words.

When he calls Gerard’s cell, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk, Gerard’s phone is off, and he just gets the answering machine – _hey, you’ve called Gerard’s cell, leave me a message. Or don’t. It probably doesn’t really matter much either way. I’ll call you back, if I like you_ – and so he says,

“It’s Ryan. Um. Call me back.”

+

“Is it too late, do you think?” he asks, about a week later, and Jeanne just shrugs.

“It’s your book. We’re going to have some opinions on what does or doesn’t go in, but overall, your writing, your vision. Besides, I think it sounds like a good idea, in a general sense. Show me what you come up with.”

“Okay,” Ryan says, and then turns back to the chapter spread across Jeanne’s desk.

+

“Well?”

Ryan shifts his weight from one foot to the other, watching Gerard’s face with something like anxiety. He hadn’t wanted to do this in Gerard’s house, or in his own apartment – he’d needed somewhere neutral, neither of theirs, so while the Starbucks down the street is more public than Ryan maybe wants this to be, it’s better than the alternatives.

“Seriously?” Gerard asks, his voice surprised, almost disbelieving. He glances down at his hands on the tabletop and then back up at Ryan’s face.

“I mean – yeah. Seriously. You’d get paid, of course. But. I know you’re busy so I can understand if –” Ryan starts, shifting his weight again, shrugging his shoulders, and focusing his eyes on some place just behind Gerard’s left ear.

“You’re really – Ryan. Shut up. Of course I’ll illustrate your fucking book.” Gerard is grinning when Ryan focuses in on his face again, wide and white and excited.

“You mean – really?”

“Yeah,” Gerard says, “but you know, this means you’re going to have to let me read it. All of it.”

“I, yeah,” Ryan says, letting out a breath in one puff of held air. “I know.”

+

The book is released on May fourteenth, and Ryan thinks that he’s probably going to puke. He wakes up nauseous, three hours earlier than usual, and drinks a large cup of tea in the morning. He can’t even think about eating.

“Spencer, Spencer, Spencer,” he says into the phone, and listens to Spencer laugh at him. It makes him feel better.

“Ryan, what’re you freaking out about? It’s not like there’re going to be lines around the door for it. Especially since you still haven’t told anyone your pseudonym. You’ll get a few reviews, and that’ll be that.”

“Spencer. People are _reading_ my _book_. It’s in their hands and it’s my ideas and my words and Gerard’s illustrations.” Ryan takes a deep breath. He knows that, technically, the book was sent to reviewers over a week ago. It doesn’t really seem to matter.

“Calm, Ryan. Breathe,” Spencer says. He pauses for a few seconds, and Ryan can hear him thinking, remembering. “Remember when we went onstage that first time? And how fucking awesome that was?”

“Yeah, but, Spencer, I actually did puke then. Kind of a lot.”

“True, but this isn’t as bad.” Spencer is smiling, Ryan knows. He’s probably on the couch in his living room in Chicago, with Brendon asleep in the guestroom and Jon a fifteen minute drive away. Ryan sort of wants them here right now, but, yeah, he’s the one who always leaves.

“In some ways, it’s worse,” is all he says.

+

Ryan mails five copies of _Temperance_ to the people that matter. On Gerard’s, he writes a small note, which says _thanks for your help – feel free to share with your band_. The rest he leaves unadorned.

Gerard sends him a text that says, _hah, I already bought them all their own_. It makes Ryan laugh.

The reviews start coming out a few days after the release, and they’re. Positive, overall. Ryan gets an email from Jeanne, five days after.

**May 19th, 3:04 PM**

To: Ryan (ryro@gmail.com)  
From: Jeanne Benson (jbenson@treehouse.com)  
Cc:  
Subject: Reviews

Ryan –

So far, so good. In case you haven’t seen them, I thought I’d send you a few links.

–Jeanne

After that is a list of six links to reviews. Ryan’s read half of them, has them printed out and taped to his fridge, actually. He has a tally of the good and the bad – the good are stuck to the left side, the bad to the right. So far the left is ahead with four, the right behind with only two. Ryan doesn’t think a 66% is really all that bad.

What Ryan does think, later, is that he really shouldn’t be surprised by Pete.

+

_so_ , Pete’s blog post says, on May 31st, _you guys remember ryan’s book, right?_

Ryan doesn’t actually read the rest of the post – it wanders off into vague, descriptive, Pete-like phrases, all of them winding up together in too complicated a pattern for Ryan to want to decode it ( _it’s not that this is a betrayal, because that’s come and gone and wasn’t wasn’t wasn’t my fault. not this time. the view from my window reminds me of all the places i could be right now but you’re here so it doesn’t really matter that i’m not. i’d rather be stuck here with you sitting on this windowsill in the winter time_ ). He sees the uploaded picture, the cover of the book, and exits out of the program.

“Goddamnit, Pete,” he says aloud. It’s probably revenge for letting Pete think that Ryan was mad at him for two months, no matter how accidental, and Ryan can understand revenge impulses. It still basically sucks.

+

Ryan doesn’t talk to anyone for nine days after that. It’s not an anger thing so much as self-preservation, and as much as he can see Spencer shaking his head and scowling (which, he’s sure, Spencer does, even after Ryan carefully tells Spencer he’s going awol), he needs the time to collect himself – gather together the bits he’s going to need next week, and the week after that. 

He actually, actually doesn’t leave his apartment, living off of his dwindling supply of crackers and pasta, drinking tea like there’s nothing else keeping him alive. He spends most of his time writing, curled up on his bed with his back to the headboard, notebook paper spread around his knees and toes, crumpled pages and ripped passages. He doesn’t sleep much, he just watches his fingers put words on the paper, half prose and half outraged screaming, the things he’ll never say, even if he should. Mostly, though, he knows he shouldn’t.

When he finally winds down, it’s about 5:40 AM on June 9th, according to the clock on his dresser, and he can’t remember the last time he left his bedroom, even for food or caffeine. This probably means that he should, sometime soon, but his fingers hurt from clutching, pressing pen against blank paper, and when he holds his hands out in front of him, they shake. He also can’t remember the last time he slept – which doesn’t mean that it hasn’t happened recently, just that he hasn’t been paying enough attention to his body to know.

He doesn’t bother to push all the detritus from his comforter, just slides under the covers, and closes his eyes. It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep.

+

He wakes up about fourteen hours later, just before 8:00 PM. The first thing he does is go outside and text Pete. He’s still wearing his pajamas.

_you’re an even bigger asshole than I am_ , he sends.

_cuz i let the cat out of the bag?_ Pete asks.

_mostly yeah,_ he replies, and it takes Pete twelve minutes, according to his cell phone’s clock, to text him back.

_u gotta live up to it ryan ross. im just doing u a favor by ratting u out._

_how is that, exactly?_ Ryan sits on the steps with his legs huddled up close to his chest, his chin resting soft against the flannel of his pants. He breathes out humid wetness, the coming of summer pressed all around him.

_now theyll know how good u are_

+

Jeanne left him a message on Tuesday, it seems, and when Ryan checks his messages, he feels vaguely guilty.

She says, “Hey, Ryan. It’s Jeanne. I’m just calling to let you know that the _Temperance_ sales have gone up dramatically in the past week. Not to touch any sore spots, but you might want to start thinking about advertising – your book has potential. I’m not asking you to out yourself on television, or anything similarly dramatic, but – you should just think it over.”

Ryan knows that he should. He knows that he could sell more books if he just admitted that he wrote _Temperance_ and got it over with, but that would be even wider exposure than just the people that read Pete’s blog. He’s not sure he’s ready for that.

And even if, hypothetically, he was (which he really, really isn’t), it’s still not the kind of thing he’d do.

Still. Ryan shrugs to himself and deletes Jeanne’s message. He still pretty much hates Pete.

+

A few days later, Spencer sends him a clip from a copy of _Spin_ , some article about him that he missed. Ryan gets it when he checks his mail in the morning, shifting through assorted bills as he pours milk over his Rice Krispies. Spencer’s attached note is cryptic, saying only _thought you might appreciate this, y’know, once you get over the dumb anger thing_. The first few lines of the article say – _Ryan Ross is hard to get a hold of these days. Since his band, Panic! At The Disco, broke up over three years ago, he’s almost completely disappeared from the public eye, showing up only infrequently to parties, even those thrown by the likes of Patrick Stump and Gerard Way. But, if business man and sometimes band member Pete Wentz is to be believed, he’s just recently published his own novel under a pseudonym._

_“Yeah,” Wentz said when I spoke with him earlier this week. We were sitting at a table in Dunkin Donuts a few blocks down from his office, tucked back in the corner. Wentz leaned forward in his chair, one hand wrapped around a cup of coffee. “He’s probably going to be mad at me for talking about it at all.”_

_“Why’s that?” I asked. Wentz had his elbows propped up on the table, and laughed at the question, showing all of his teeth._

_“I guess he just doesn’t want anyone to know how brilliant he really is. I’ve known him for ten years, and I_ still _don’t get it.”_.

Ryan rolls his eyes, taking the last bite of his cereal. He pauses, before sticking the article to his fridge with a magnet.

Ryan knows that Pete believes what he’s saying. He’s just not entirely certain that he believes Pete.

+

Gerard invites Ryan to come and hang out with his band, keep them company at the studio. Ryan doesn’t even think about declining the offer, which, later, makes him worry, just a little. He’s not used to giving in without a thought, not since he was forced to.

He doesn’t have a car anymore, so he takes the subway down to Penn station and catches the NJ Transit out of Manhattan. The nearest train station is still a twenty minute drive from the studio, and so Gerard picks him up, sunglasses firmly over his eyes, hood pulled up over his head. Ryan grins as he climbs down the steps to the parking lot, reaching out before he thinks about it, and tugging at the fabric around Gerard’s face.

“Just as inseparable as ever,” he says, pulling back his hand and tucking it in his pocket. Gerard laughs.

“What can I say? I missed it while it was gone.” Ryan half-smiles and looks down at his feet, rocking back on his heels. “Ah-ah. No guilt,” Gerard says, more than a note of sincerity clear in the amused tone of his voice. Ryan just laughs and wonders if he’s that much easier to read than he used to be, or if Gerard has had the time to actually learn his cues. He’s not sure which he would prefer, but he suspects the latter, if only because then he only has to worry about one hole in his defenses, not multiple. He lets Gerard tuck a hand in the crook of his elbow and tug him toward the car.

The first half of the ride is silent, mostly because Ryan can’t think of anything constructive to say, and Gerard appears completely at ease. Finally, Ryan says,

“Everyone really likes the illustrations.” It’s rather bland – an easy, safe compliment, but Ryan is fine with safe. Safe is nice, but not anything special. Ryan doesn’t think he’d mind, so much, being safe. Gerard grins at him, blindingly white, for half a second before turning back to the road.

“Have sales been higher since Pete did his little show-and-tell, or whatever the fuck you feel like calling it?”

Ryan sighs. “Yeah. I’m not sure if I appreciate the help or not.”

“That means that you sort of don’t appreciate it but feel like you should, right?” Gerard is trying not to laugh, Ryan can tell – his smile is a little too wide, and his eyes are crinkling at the corners. He wishes that Gerard wasn’t sort of really right.

“Kind of,” is what he actually says, lifting one shoulder in a half-shrug. He wants to say something like _how is it that you’ve become my main contact with the outside world?_ , but the words stick in his throat like anything important always does, and he’s left wondering if Gerard would say _just lucky, I guess_ or _well, someone has to do it, Ryan Ross_. Instead, Ryan rests his head back against the seat and watches Gerard drive.

+

Mikey is waiting for them in the lobby when they reach the studio, curled up on one of the bland chairs lining the room.

“I thought I’d be the welcoming party,” Mikey says when Ryan stops in front of him, with what he assumes is a quizzical expression on his face.

“Kind of a lame party, isn’t it?” Gerard says, his fingers still wrapped lightly around Ryan’s wrist where he’d grabbed him in the parking lot, dragging Ryan into the building after him.

“Thought that counts, right?” Mikey says, shrugging fluidly and standing. Ryan doesn’t know Mikey that well, can’t read his silences in any helpful way, but he takes this gesture as welcoming, and appreciates it.

“Thanks,” he says. His voice is softer than he means it to be, and Mikey smiles at him.

“No problem.”

+

Frank is in the studio, watching Ray lay down guitar tracks, and he pounces on Ryan as they walk in, hugging him almost Brendon-tight, and Ryan has to remind himself not to tense up at the unexpected contact. Still, his shoulders come up slightly, and it takes him just a hair too long to hug back, but Ryan figures that Frank will forgive him. Gerard snorts.

“I’m glad you’re so happy to see me,” he says, standing just behind Ryan.

“You’ve only been gone an hour,” Frank replies, pulling away and slinging an arm around Mikey’s thin shoulders. Mikey is about five inches taller than Frank, so Frank has to stand on his tiptoes to reach, but Mikey just smiles down at him and doesn’t comment.

“Details,” Gerard says.

Ryan ends up curling up in the couch toward the back of the room and watching them work for a few hours. It’s surprisingly different than he’s used to – Panic had, after all, mostly started with the lyrics and worked it’s way outward, building drums as Spencer found the rhythm, and spreading, normally, to Jon for bass after that. The melody could come in at any time, and Brendon would mostly know at the beginning if he needed a piano part or not.

My Chem, on the other hand, seems to work from every direction at once, converging on something that only partially makes sense from the outside. It’s organic, comfortable, chaotic, and since this is the gestation of My Chem’s eighth album, the almost familiar rhythm of it makes sense, even to Ryan, who’s never seen it before.

“I swear, I’ll come up with the lyrics for that guitar part, Frank, but I need a rhythm section for the bridge of _this_ one,” Gerard says, running his hands through his hair, the expression on his face almost manic.

“Yeah, yeah,” Frank says, “just, I have to finish this six measures first; otherwise, I’m going to lose it.”

“You could always work out in the car again,” Mikey says, helpfully, from where he’s talking bass with Ray, “although there’s actual heat this time. I’m not sure if that’s conducive or not.” His bass fits in his hands like an extension of his limbs, and he strums at it idly as he talks.

Ray doesn’t even bother to look up from his guitar, glancing over at the screen of his laptop, set up on a stool just to his left, every few minutes for confirmation. Ryan props his chin on his hands, and glances up when Bob sits next to him.

“Pretty chaotic,” Bob says, his face almost completely expressionless. Ryan shrugs, lifting one shoulder in acknowledgement.

“You’re not going to help out?” Ryan asks, shifting to look at Bob, who is tapping his drumsticks on his thigh, watching his band.

“Nah,” Bob says, “I usually wait for them to settle a bit before laying down drums. Toro may seem quiet, but I try to stay out of his way during recording. He and Frank tend to get in spats.” Bob inclines his chin toward Ray, who is looking at Frank with a scowl.

“What? I’m just making suggestions, Ray,” Frank says. The wide grin on his face tells Ryan that’s he’s probably just making shit up to provoke Ray, and is obviously happy that it’s working as well as it is. Gerard rolls his eyes from behind him.

“Mikey,” Ray says, “will you please take your boyfriend out for a walk?”

“As long as you’re not planning on needing us for, like, half an hour,” Mikey says, grinning as he glances at Frank. Ryan raises his eyebrows before he can think about it, and wonders how he missed that particular connection.

“Oh, ew,” Gerard says. “Just not near the soda machines this time, okay? I’m still traumatized from Wednesday.”

+

“I’m sorry,” Gerard says later, his hair askew from running his hands through it, his expression apologetic. He has two bags of Chinese in one hand and two sodas in the other, which, Ryan thinks, sort of makes up for it. “I’m a really bad host.” It’s a little bit true, but Ryan doesn’t mind. He takes his bag with a shrug and says,

“I don’t mind.” He doesn’t, really. “You work – really differently than what I’m used to.” Maybe because Gerard’s words are his to sing, and so he doesn’t have to be so careful with them, refitting them for someone else’s voice and face and feelings. Ryan’s never felt that he was missing something by letting Brendon sing, has never regretted that choice, but sometimes he wonders what it would’ve been like. With less hiding and less caution. He doubts he could handle it now, much less back when he’d written those first few songs. _Tacks for Snacks_ and _Camisado_ were songs he could only really produce knowing he wouldn’t have to sing them himself. He shifts in his chair, and Gerard raises an eyebrow in what might be skepticism and might be confusion.

“Well, crazy is sort of par for the course with us, I guess. You may never again see Ray angry. Kind of a once in a lifetime opportunity there.”

“Glad I didn’t miss it, then.” Gerard’s smile holds some degree of relief in it, like Ryan might actually mind. Ryan’s not sure what to say to change that, so he doesn’t say anything at all, just smiles at Gerard and hopes it’s enough.

“C’mon,” Gerard says, “let’s eat outside.”

+

Gerard waits until they’re driving back to the train station to bring it up.

“Ryan,” he says, his voice quieter than Ryan has ever heard it – not tentative, really, but careful. “Ryan, seriously.” Ryan doesn’t look at Gerard, knows that Gerard is glancing at him, trying to catch his eye in the reflection of the rearview mirror.

“What?” Ryan asks, and the tone is too defensive, too immediately on edge for his own comfort.

“You know what you should do?” Gerard’s voice has an undercurrent of excitement embedded in it like sparks, and Ryan sort of just wants to give it to him, whatever it is.

“What?” he asks. Ryan can hear the edge in his words, and he doesn’t really want it there, but he can’t help it.

“A book tour. You should do a book tour, totally.” Ryan glances over, then, and sees the smile on Gerard’s face, the too-wide slant of his eyes.

“A book tour? Why?”

“So you’ll stop hiding, dude. You know that you do. I think you’ve seen about four people in the past six months who aren’t part of your band. Like, eight at most, seriously.” Gerard is sincere in his earnestness, Ryan knows. It doesn’t mean he appreciates it. Ryan’s never really been that good at taking criticism.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, I don’t –”

“Dude, don’t even give me that. You do. You _do_. Why the hell else would you be so against Pete’s little advertisement thing?”

“Maybe I don’t want his help,” Ryan says, his tone back to expressionless. He looks at his fingers where they’re curved over his knees, fingernails pressing into his jeans hard enough, probably, to bruise the skin underneath. 

“Or maybe you just don’t want actual popularity.” Gerard is looking straight ahead when Ryan glances at him. Ryan looks immediately back at his legs.

“I just – I don’t want to be famous because of Panic. I don’t.”

“That’s pretty dumb, I gotta say.” Ryan feels himself flinch, because he knows that Gerard is honest, always, sometimes brutally so, but he’s never had that turned on him before. He bites into his lip, watching the pavement disappear under the wheels of the car, and he doesn’t want to hear this, even if he knows that he probably has to anyway. “Just because you’re not a part of Panic anymore doesn’t mean that it should be completely erased from public consciousness. Besides, I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t –”

“No, shut up. You can’t always use it as an excuse. It’s been more than three years – you don’t think that’s enough time? If you ask me, you’re just scared of dealing with all those people again. Which, y’know, I can totally understand. Just own up to it, man. If you’re scared, fine, just, like. Fucking _do_ something about it. You can’t hide in your apartment forever, right?”

Ryan doesn’t say anything – the words he knows he should be saying wrap themselves around his vocal chords and refuse to leave, all of the _I know, I know, you’re right_ s, and the _I don’t know if I can_ s, and the _nothing will ever be that good, you know that_ s. Instead, he watches the road trail away, ribbons of yellow lines and white boundaries, and he worries at his lower lip with his teeth.

“A book tour?” he asks, finally. Gerard looks over with a relieved laugh, and Ryan wonders if Gerard thought his silence was anger.

“Yeah, man, yeah,” he says. “It’ll be like old times, kind of.” He laughs again, and runs a hand through his hair. Ryan is silent again, letting the space stretch out behind them as he thinks, and – it’s not really such a bad idea. Not really. Even if it sort of terrifies the shit out of him.

“Okay,” he says. “Um, okay. Yeah. Just –” he sighs. “Okay. Come with me?” he asks, and it’s half joke but it’s half really, really not, and he puts on a smile to play it off, fingers rubbing against the words tattooed on his wrists. “I mean, you are the illustrator.”

Gerard looks at him, stopped at a traffic light, and he seems to be considering, weighing the pros and cons. Ryan tries not to twitch under his gaze, fingers still twisting against the ink in his skin. “Yeah,” Gerard says, eventually. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see what I can do.”

+

When he calls her to talk about it, Jeanne just says,

“Well, when I said advertising, that’s not exactly what I had in mind, but you used to be a musician, so I can understand you veering off in that direction. We could make it work.”

“Good,” Ryan says. Ryan knows he’s shifted responsibility to her, and the dread that’s still lodged in the bottom of his lungs is outweighed by the relief he feels at having it just be over with. “Thank you,” he adds, almost belatedly.

“You know, normally you’d be talking to an agent about this, not a publisher,” she says, a tinge of laughter in her voice. Ryan hadn’t even realized he knew her that well; it’s something of a relief to know that he does. He shrugs, even though she can’t see it.

“Well, um. Want to be my agent, then?”

“If you feel the need to give it a name, Ryan Ross,” she says, and Ryan smiles.

“Sometimes,” he says.

+

Gerard calls when Ryan is out picking up more tea, so he can actually answer it before it goes to voicemail.

“Hello,” he says. He’s smiling; he wonders if Gerard can tell.

“Whoa, hi,” Gerard says. He sounds surprised and maybe, maybe pleased, also. “You actually answered your phone.”

“I’m outside my apartment building, so,” Ryan says, leaving off that there are definitely people he would rather not talk to on the phone. Pete, for one. Brendon, sometimes. Most of the rest of the United States.

“Gasp! Shock!” Gerard says, and bursts into laughter, high pitched and uncontrolled.

“Shut up,” Ryan replies, deadpan, and rolls his eyes. He pushes open the doors to the grocery story, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder, grabbing a basket from beside the entrance.

“Whatever, anyway.” Ryan imagines Gerard’s gesturing arm stirring the air next to his head. “So, I think Jeanne and Brian are talking.” Ryan _hmm?_ s and heads to the tea isle, grabbing a few boxes of the earl grey he likes so much, and snagging some Bombay chai. He’d tried this awesome peach ginger stuff last time, but they seem to be out of it, so he picks up pomegranate instead, because the red color of the box is interesting, and he’s never had it before. “Brian’s been giving me these looks,” Gerard is saying.

“What kind of looks?” Ryan asks, looking down at the four boxes of tea in his basket. That should be enough for a few weeks. Also, he needs more pasta. And cheese.

“Like, y’know, those ahh-now-I-get-it kind of looks, only I really don’t know what he finally got.”

“Yeah, I used to get that from Spencer all the time. I’d give it probably a three day margin, and after that you’re safe never knowing. Does this mean that you’re actually coming with?” Ryan thinks that he safely manages to keep the incredulity out of his voice, and decides to get both the bowties and the elbows, figuring he eats enough pasta to make it worth it. He snags some grated parmesan from the cheese display in the middle of the isle, and heads to the checkout.

“For a while. We’re still recording, for the next week or so, at least, but I assume Brian and Jeanne will figure something out. The organizational types always do.”

Ryan smiles, and then laughs when Gerard says, “I can hear you smiling, Ross, don’t think I can’t.”

+

If someone asked Ryan, and he’s relatively sure someone has, in some interview too far in the past for him to remember, if he’s dated more boys or girls, his answer would have been, almost immediately, girls. It’s still true. Besides the odd backstage makeout session and high school experimentation, Ryan’s girlfriends have tended to be just that. Girls. 

He and Brendon briefly dated during that first Academy tour, but that was mostly stolen kisses in the backseat of the van (fingertips pressed to fogged windows, jokes about _Titanic_ ) and late night IHOP dates (Spencer and Brent sitting two booths back and pretending not to notice). It was nice, sweet, but it wasn’t epic, wasn’t exactly what Ryan wanted, so when Brendon had said, “y’know, Ryan, I love you, man, it’s just –” Ryan had been mostly relieved. Ryan wasn’t ever and continues not to be good at getting out of relationships, no matter how unhealthy they might be, or how unhappy they might make him.

Besides Brendon he had the Pete thing, but, really, that wasn’t ever as sexual as everyone thought it was, and they were too alike for it to work much past the recording of _Fever_. Pete’s a friend, Pete understands him, but Pete’s just too wrapped up inside his own head to pull Ryan out of his own.

During that summer tour after the third album, _fourteen songs_ , when Jon had dislocated his shoulder badly enough that he’d been off the tour for the first leg, Ryan had this _thing_ with Adam, their stand-in bassist. He’d been nice enough – had enough time, really – to come on tour with them, and Ryan hadn’t been sure exactly how to thank him – hadn’t meant to press him against the dressing room wall and kiss him, exactly. Hadn’t meant much of anything, but it had happened anyway. Long days of shared bunks and cold feet and hands curling in his hair. It hadn’t lasted long past the leg of the tour, and seeing Adam off at the airport, Ryan had known that goodbye meant a few phone calls and some texts, the lengthening of time between, and he hadn’t felt bitter about it. He’d smiled and said,

“Thanks.”

“You too,” Adam had said, his light hair shorn close to his scalp, and given Ryan a light punch on the shoulder. He’d pulled his hood over his head and turned away, boarding. 

But – but three or so exceptions doesn’t mean much of anything. After all, he’d almost married Keltie. 

He’s not sure if the Gerard thing counts yet. He’s actually pretty sure that he wants it to.

+

Jeanne emails him his itinerary on June 27th, and, as per his request, he sees that the last date is in Chicago. He texts Pete quickly when he sees it, saying _July 17th, be there_ , and the name of the bookstore. The first date is in two days, at the Barnes and Noble in Union Square. He’s glad that it’s downtown, he likes the feel of the city better when he’s closer to the village. But – he has two days. It suddenly seems so short notice, and then the next day he’s somewhere in New Jersey, Providence next, and then Boston after that. He still has to pack.

He takes a deep breath, and wonders how he could be so stupid as to insist that he’d be fine doing this by himself. Running his hands through his hair, he wishes that he could be satisfied with his own weakness, instead of trying to change it, to fix it. He’s been around Gerard too much.

+

When Pete texts him back, all it says is,

_dont worry dude already on top of it_

+

The room is bigger than he’d expected it to be, like there are actually going to be large numbers of people watching him, and Ryan stuffs his hands in his pockets just to keep them from picking at the fabric of his sweater. They’ve set it up on the first floor, just near the entrance, moving the display tables to the side to make room for the chairs and the podium. Ryan’s two hours early, isn’t supposed to show up for another half an hour, but he had nothing better to do besides worry, and so he found himself on the subway at 11:51, taking the 4 to Union Square and walking the two and a half blocks from the station.

There’s a table to the left stacked up with copies of the book, and Ryan runs his fingers over the covers.

_Temperance, or, the Journey of Johnny Wilson and What Happened Next_ , by George Morris, it says in simple block letters. The illustration is Gerard’s, and the name is nobody’s, and there’s nothing tying Ryan to the book except the fact that he wrote it. Except that fact that he left his band for it.

He has an hour and forty minutes.

+

“Hi,” he says from the podium, looking out onto a sea of faces – women in sharp business suits, women with their sweaters pulled tightly across their shoulders, with nose rings and lip rings and tattoos peeking out at their wrists, with their hair pulled away from their faces sloppily, tendrils falling around the curves of their cheeks. Men with thinning hair, and with jeans made more of holes than fabric, and with fingernails painted black and red. “I’m Ryan Ross. Thanks for coming.”

He smiles. He doesn’t look away.

+

Gerard ambushes him at the signing afterward, sliding into the empty chair next to him as he’s signing a copy of the book for a woman holding a small child by the hand. Ryan doesn’t have the time to be surprised.

“Nancy,” she says, “my name’s Nancy,” and Ryan smiles at her, signs the front page, _Dear Nancy, thanks for your support! I hope you enjoyed the book, ♥, Ryan Ross_

“You sign with a heart?” Gerard asks, and he sounds remarkably amused.

“Yes,” Ryan says, and doesn’t look over. He turns to the kid next in line and says, surprised, “Oh, you brought a CD.”

The kid smiles, his hair still in that sweep across the left side of his face, and slides a copy of _colorburn and lightsoft_ across the table to Ryan.

“It’s not that I don’t like the book. I do. Just – I never got a chance to have a CD signed, you know?”

Ryan hasn’t actually seen a CD case in awhile, not since most music went digital, and so he says, “Sure, yeah, what’s your name?”

“Nick,” the kid says, and Ryan smiles at him, nodding.

“You did a good job, Ryan,” Gerard says, clasping a hand firmly against the back of Ryan’s neck, and stands.

+

“What’re you doing here?” Ryan asks Gerard, after. He’s still standing by the signing table, just about to grab his bag to head home. Gerard shrugs, and winds the fingers of his left hand into his hair, pulling lightly at the strands.

“We finished recording for today, and I wanted to hear you, so,” Gerard says. He’s got his backpack slung over one shoulder, and his expression is unexpectedly awkward. Ryan stuffs his hands in his back pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Sorry that I can’t make the earlier signings.”

“It’s okay. You’ll be at the one in Chicago, though?” Ryan asks, even though the itinerary said so. He just wants to make sure.

“Yeah, and the two before that.”

“Okay, then. You’re off the hook. I think I can survive without you, anyway.” 

“Well, just in case,” Gerard starts, and pulls off his backpack, unzipping it. He yanks a black mass of fabric from inside the front pocket, and holds it out for Ryan to take. Ryan is confused for just a moment before he realizes – _oh_ , Gerard’s hoodie, probably still unwashed from the last time Gerard did laundry. Ryan pulls his hands from his pockets, and balls the hoodie up between them, holding it close to his torso. “I mean, not that I think you can’t, I just –”

“Thanks,” Ryan says, interrupting, “I mean. It’s nice of you.”

“I just – thought you might like it.” Gerard is smiling more nervously than Ryan has seen since the first time they talked. Ryan bounces on the balls of his feet and doesn’t think about what this means.

“I do. I do like it,” he says. He means it. The tension in Gerard’s shoulders melts away, and Ryan shrugs on the hoodie. The sleeves are long enough to cover halfway to the ends of his fingers, and when he presses the cuff to his nose, he can smell Gerard on the fabric.

+

That evening, Ryan calls Spencer and gets all of them on speakerphone.

“Tell us everything,” Brendon says, his voice serious, and they are silent, waiting.

“It was –” Ryan starts, before laughing to himself. “It was terrifying, actually. I mean, I wanted to vomit for approximately half of the reading, but they clapped at the end, and stayed after, to wait for me to sign their books, so. I think it went alright.”

Ryan hears Spencer snort, and Jon says,

“How long ‘til we get to see you, again?” And then, “Ow, Brendon, share.”

“I can’t hear, asshole, lean back,” Brendon says, his voice slightly farther away.

“About two and a half weeks,” Ryan says. He figures it doesn’t matter if they hear him or not, because Spencer will, and Spencer will make sure they know.

“Brian told me,” Spencer says, and Ryan can hear the grin in his voice, like bright sparks in his mind. Ryan laughs. “He called after he talked to Ms. Benson, so I have it written down.”

“You’re the best, Spencer,” Ryan says, and he really means it.

“Aww,” Jon says, “how cute is that?” Brendon laughs, loudly, and Ryan misses all of them with a sharp jolt.

“You bet I am,” Spencer says. “You’d all be lost without me.”

+

Ryan has to get used to traveling again, but this time he gets train rides and hotel rooms instead of buses and bunks, road dust and cold showers and the smell of boy everywhere. He’s used to sleeping by himself, got used to it over three years ago when he decided to forgo the tours by choice. Still, he remembers Zack handing them key cards on the nights when they actually got to stay in hotels, and the tour manager letting them know that they’d have to wake up at 6:00 to get to the venue on time.

He wonders if this is how single musicians feel, alone in unfamiliar territory every evening and moving on the next day, and all without the close pressure and presence of the rest of the band. Ryan’s used to being on his own; he’s used to making his own tea when he wakes up, and reading the newspaper in his bed, and avoiding the news channels on the television. There is none of that here – just a small coffee maker on the counter in the corner, and CNN on the television. It’s either CNN or the Spanish soap channel, which Ryan only understands in terms of gesticulation and raised voices, wine glasses thrown against the wall.

Settling in the bed at 9:30 in the evening, just outside of downtown Boston, Ryan texts Brendon and says,

_the only thing better about this hotel room than my apartment is the cell reception_.

Three minutes later, Brendon texts back, saying,

_buck up kid, it only gets better from here on out_.

Ryan snorts, pulls Gerard’s hoodie up over his shoulders, and burrows under the covers.

+

At the reading in Providence, Ryan finally looks up from the words long enough to look at their faces – some of them with their eyes closed, some of them almost asleep, some of them staring right at him, seeing right into him. It’s almost more intimate than being onstage – the focus all on _his_ face and _his_ voice, there is no Brendon to distract them, and the only instrument is sitting on the table in front of him. No diversions, no shifting their focus, nothing to look at that isn’t him. He couldn’t have done this with Panic. Not at the beginning; not even at the end.

+

Ryan’s woken up at 6:32 AM on the 10th of July to the vibration of his cell phone against the outside of his thigh, where it had apparently migrated sometime during the night. He’s pretty sure he’s somewhere in Ohio, maybe; he’s always been bad about remembering locations when he’s not grounded in any way.

_hey, sleepyhead,_ Gerard’s text says, _record’s done._

_what makes you think I was sleeping?_ he asks, taking about twice as long as usual to text, while he tries to make his fingers work.

_i know you on tour, dude. we did tour with you at least three times for those last two albums_

Instead of texting Gerard back, Ryan calls him, his fingers pressing out the numbers without thinking, still mostly asleep.

“The record’s finished?” he asks, his voice thick with fatigue. He yawns at the end of the sentence, stretching out the last _-ed_. Gerard laughs at him, but it’s a soft laugh. Affectionate, maybe. Ryan likes the way it sounds.

“Yeah,” Gerard says, and Ryan can hear the sleepy pleasure in his voice, satisfaction. “Didn’t sleep last night, actually, finishing it.”

“So that’s why _you’re_ up this early,” Ryan says, intelligently.

“Well, that and I’m, like, an old man, and y’know, the older you get the earlier you wake up.”

“Closing in on the big four-oh, yeah? At this rate, looks like you’ll be single forever.” Ryan’s not exactly thinking before he talks, something he is much better at when he hasn’t just been woken up, and when he’s gotten more than two-and-a-half hours of sleep. Which is why he winces when Gerard says,

“Been there, done that. Married life isn’t exactly all I’d thought it would be. Either time.”

Ryan’s gathered that Gerard’s split from Lyn-z was almost totally amiable – a year and a half after their marriage and they’d finally realized that, hey, they never saw each other. Both bands toured almost constantly, and they’d never even _lived_ together in all their time being married and – well, from what Frank’s said it wasn’t that bad on Gerard, all things considered.

Adrianne, though, Gerard had met Adrianne at some function somewhere (an ad-exec maybe? Ryan’s never really been sure), six months after the Lyn-z thing, and then six months after _that_ had been the marriage. Ryan had gone to the ceremony, actually, and they’d seemed happy, and Ryan had genuinely liked her.

They’d stayed married for three years, and Ryan’s just glad that they never had children, because if they had, the divorce would have scarred them for life. Adrianne argued for a living, held on to her anger with her teeth, and Gerard was just barely staying sober. It was not fun to watch.

Just after that was when he and Gerard actually became friends, and in all the time since, Gerard’s spoken about it maybe twice. Three times now, sort of.

“Sorry,” Ryan says, “wasn’t thinking.”

“Whatever.” There’s a shrug in Gerard’s voice, a _well, I really shouldn’t mind talking about it anymore_ , but who is Ryan to criticize for latent issues?

“Just. Sorry,” he says again, and Gerard laughs, softly.

“Yeah, you sort of always are, aren’t you?”

“Um,” Ryan says, not sure if that’s sarcasm or a compliment or something else entirely.

“No, I mean it. How can anyone apologize as much as you do, and still be genuine every time?”

Ryan doesn’t say anything about the years between middle school and the record contract when he wouldn’t apologize for anything, ever, even after he learned, inevitably, that it was his fault. He figures he still probably has some catching up to do.

“Ask Spencer some time. Maybe he’ll tell you.”

“You’re a mysterious dude, Ross. I gotta say, I kind of like it.”

Ryan wishes he could see the expression on Gerard’s face as he says it, and he wonders, because Gerard’s voice is almost wistful, a bittersweet curl like the quirk of his lips. 

“I’ll see you in five days,” Ryan says.

+

One thing Ryan does appreciate about this particular sort of tour is the fact that he’s left to himself most of the time. He’s used to his own hours, and as long as he checks in with Jeanne is the mornings and meets with the coordinators at the bookstore and doesn’t miss the arrival time, it’s up to him to get to the train station on time, or the airport, up to him to check into his hotel and grab his own tea from Starbucks on his way out the door.

It’s a little lonely, maybe, but it’s independent, and somehow that almost matters more.

+

Ryan’s at the hotel when Gerard arrives. He’s half asleep and half watching a movie on the television, curled up under the covers – it’s just after 10:30, and the reading is in the morning the next day. Gerard calls him from outside, and says,

“Hey, I just got out of my cab. Meet me in the lobby?” Ryan doubts that Gerard needs his help on the luggage side of things, but he doesn’t protest. He’s maybe a little excited to see Gerard.

He looks at himself in the bathroom mirror before he goes down. He’s in his pajama pants, still wearing Gerard’s hoodie, and his hair is mussed. There’s not much he can do but run his fingers through it and hope for the best. He doubts that Gerard will care either way. Ryan still does. He sticks the electronic keycard in the pocket of his pajamas and slips on his flipflops, walking out to the elevator.

When he gets to the ground floor, he sees Gerard in the lobby, sitting cross-legged on one of the over-stuffed couches. His backpack in slumped on the floor at his feet, the dirty, black canvas of it clashing with the burgundy and gold of the carpet. Hotel lobbies are always so much plusher than the rooms themselves, as if showing luxury on the way in will prove something about overall quality. Ryan’s feet are silent on the carpeted floor, but his flipflops _thwack_ softly with every step, and so Gerard looks up, a wide grin spreading across his face. Ryan’s wrapped up in a tight hug before he can even say hello, Gerard’s fingers fisted tightly in the back of his sweatshirt. Ryan can feel the press of Gerard’s jeans against his thighs, and he wonders if, maybe, he should have gotten dressed before coming down. He feels strangely exposed, and he might be blushing, and he just says,

“Oh,” without thinking about it at all. Gerard pulls back enough to look him in the face, amusement in the set of his eyebrows and the wrinkles in the corners of his mouth.

“Oh?” Gerard replies, taking one step back. Ryan hopes he looks less bashful than he feels, and he shrugs.

“I mean, hi.”

“Hi,” Gerard says, grinning in the bright way that makes Ryan want to smile back, and maybe, maybe kiss him. “You’re wearing the sweatshirt.” His tone is pleased and almost surprised; Ryan looks down at himself, his white t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, the hoodie unzipped and clinging to his shoulders.

“Yeah,” he says. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do with them?” In truth, Ryan has barely taken it off, but it’s not something he’s quite ready to admit to out loud – except maybe to Spencer. Not to anyone else.

“I suppose so.” Gerard doesn’t stop smiling, just pulls at the ends of the zipper, his hands only a few inches from Ryan’s hips. He’s closer than Ryan should probably be comfortable with, and saying that Ryan _is_ comfortable is maybe too certain a statement, but Ryan’s pretty sure he doesn’t feel like running. “Chicago’s going to be madhouse,” Gerard adds.

“I know,” Ryan says, and he does. Pete’s from Chicago. Pete pretty much _owns_ Chicago, or all the parts that matter, which really says just about everything it needs to. “Are your guys coming up for it?”

Gerard’s laugh is self-deprecating, but not quite humorless, and it makes Ryan’s toes want to curl, makes him want to press his fingers to the curve of Gerard’s throat. Gerard says, “You bet. Someone’s gotta keep me in line.”

Ryan bends to pick up Gerard’s backpack, tugging Gerard toward the elevator by his wrist.

“C’mon,” he says.

+

He texts Pete at 3:43 AM, with Gerard sleeping in the bed next to his.

_want to tell me the plans for the 17th?_ he asks, and he isn’t shocked by the reply he gets, four minutes later.

_its a surprise asshole dont go trying to ruin it_ , Pete says.

_just, maybe no police at this one?_ The last time Ryan went to one of Pete’s parties, it had ended with about twelve arrests. Luckily, no one was actually hurt, and they were all released in the morning, after Pete promised to pay for all the property damage. That had been almost two years ago, but Ryan knows that Pete hasn’t changed much.

_ill see what i can do. the things i do for my friends_ , is Pete’s only response. Ryan imagines the sigh that comes with it, and the eye roll. It’s been too long since he saw Pete in person.

_i love you too, dude_ , Ryan says, and listens to Gerard breathing quietly in the darkness.

+

The reading on the 17th is actually quieter than Ryan was expecting. It’s like no one told the press that there were going to be actual celebrities in the audience, and Ryan is pretty happy about this, however it came about. Gerard hasn’t actually talked during the readings except to introduce himself, and this one is no different. He still takes questions about his artistic process during the Q&A and he sits next to Ryan at the signing table with a sharpie, leaving his own quick notes under Ryan’s.

Ryan keeps his eyes on the page in front of him for the most part, trying not to meet Spencer’s eyes, or see any of them (BrendonJonPete) sitting in the back row. At some point Gerard’s fingers press against the small of his back through his t-shirt, and Ryan takes a deep breath. He’s not sure why reading in front of them is worse – except that they know how to read his tones and his face, and they know when he reads aloud that these are his words in his mouth for the first time, and what that means.

He’s relieved when it’s over. 

“Ryan,” Spencer says, after the last copy has been signed. His voice is thick, like it wants to stick in the back of his throat, and Ryan looks into his eyes.

“It’s better hearing you read it,” Brendon says from behind Spencer, hooking his chin over Spencer’s shoulder. “I mean – you know what I mean.”

Spencer nods, and Ryan can’t make himself say anything.

“I think we should all hug before one of you starts crying,” Jon says, coming up behind Ryan, pressing his hands against Ryan’s rib cage. Ryan just holds out his arms.

+

Ten hours later, Ryan is slightly intoxicated. The drink in his hand, currently, is some fatal, fruity combination of coconut rum, pineapple juice, and cranberry juice. It tastes about as alcoholic as water and much sweeter, but Ryan knows that this is pretty fucking false. Ryan, also, has never had a high tolerance for alcohol, after all of the years of vehemently _not_ drinking and the years after that of intermittent and infrequent contact with alcohol. He’s not sure that’s a bad thing, exactly.

Still, Ryan’s a little lightheaded, and so he wraps his arm around Pete’s waist, and figures it might be a good idea to sit down sometime soon. Also, he hasn’t seen Gerard in awhile. They’d gone in together, Ryan knows, with Gerard’s arm warm around his shoulders, but then the rest of My Chem had showed up and Ryan had lost track of all of them. He wonders if Gerard had said goodbye before he left.

“Where do you think Gerard went?” Ryan asks Pete, his voice a little too loud. It’s okay, though; the music isn’t very quiet either, and Ryan doesn’t want his voice to get lost in it. Pete laughs, his smile wide enough to expose all of his extremely white teeth. 

“Oh, I see how it is. I throw you a party, and you just want to hang with Gerard?” The club, Pete’s club, the one he opened in Chicago after the last Fall Out Boy album, is packed full, and Ryan’s seen about half of The Academy, in it’s current incarnation –Ryan’s not even sure he knows the members anymore, besides Carden and Beckett – all of Fall Out Boy, plus My Chem, Honesty Unlimited, and what seems like a few hundred other people Ryan has never met, most of which are probably in some way related to Pete’s label. 

“It’s not really a party for me. I’m just the excuse for you to get all these people in the same room,” Ryan says, smiling crookedly.

“And, dude, was it worth it or what? I just hope Conrad and Carden end up punching each other out.” Ryan laughs. The last time Tom talked to Carden was probably eight years ago, according to Jon, and now they’ve settled into a routine of never acknowledging each other, even when they’re at the same event, or tour, or house party. Tom apparently still talks to Beckett on occasion, though. Ryan thinks, secretly, that this is probably at least partially Jon’s doing.

Patrick comes over, at some point, distracting Pete, and Ryan wanders off into the crowd. He’s finished his drink, and so he sets the empty glass on a table and wonders if another would be a good idea. Probably not.

It’s his party, sort of, and Ryan figures that he shouldn’t be alone. He doesn’t want to be, anyway. He wants to find Gerard.

Instead, he runs into Tom by the bar, where he’s sitting on a stool with his back against the dark wood. The drink in his hand in amber and half empty, and he sips it when he meets Ryan’s eyes.

“Ross,” Tom says, saluting him with his glass. Ryan can hear the ice clink together in the bottom, and a smile curls around his lips like warmth, but Tom’s face is serious.

“Conrad,” Ryan replies. He remembers last time, and how Tom had looked, with his shirt pushed up off of his stomach, straddling Ryan’s thighs. He remembers Tom’s nose ring and his smile, his well kissed lips. He remembers how it felt, to think that Tom might actually understand. Tom who had taken his place – in name if not in feeling.

“Ross, man,” Tom says, the look on his face the same combination of jealousy and hope as it had been, earlier, in Chicago. His tone says, _if you don’t get it, I don’t think anyone does_. And Ryan knows what he means, about how _band_ sometimes means _family_ and sometimes it doesn’t. Tom, Ryan thinks, has never found that exact right combination. Ryan has, and Ryan gave it up, gave it up on purpose.

Tom’s smiling at him, now, with his lips quirked in that _well, what do you think?_ kind of invitation. Ryan thinks that it sounds like fun, sounds like the sort of thing a person does when they’re drunk and they want to taste someone’s skin and don’t much care who it is, as long as they understand. It sounds like what he might have needed, six months ago, when he was still uncertain, still out of place.

He doesn’t do it. As easy as would be to step in closer, push Tom’s thighs apart with his hands and put himself between them, he thinks about Gerard’s fingers pushed against the small of his back and fisted into his shirt. And that’s mostly enough.

“They’re my family, dude,” he says, because he’s sorry, he is, but, “I don’t have anyone else. They love you, though, so. Let them.” He watches Tom’s expression change to something like surprise, and he maybe wants to lean closer and run his fingers through Tom’s hair, feel Tom’s breath against his cheek, but understanding isn’t the only thing he needs anymore. Not from Tom, anyway. 

Ryan shrugs, and says, “I get it, I do,” and wanders back into the crowd.

+

He ends up outside, sitting on the curb with his feet in the street and his elbows on his knees, his chin in his hands. He can hear the noise of the club behind him, the bass booming out into the street, and most of the melody is lost. The streetlights are bright, and the sky is clear in that polluted way that blots out the stars, and the air is dry against his skin, not like the humidity of the east coast. It’s not cold enough to need the hoodie, but Ryan’s too stubborn to take it off. He’s still a little off-balance, still tipsy, and he still doesn’t care.

“The party’s in your honor, you know.”

Ryan turns his head. Spencer is standing behind him with his hands on his hips, not quite smiling, but not expressionless, either. Ryan knows that he’s happy, anyway – he might as well be grinning. Ryan pats the ground beside him, and Spencer doesn’t hesitate, just sits next to him, close enough that they’re pressed together hip to knee.

“I talked to Tom,” Ryan says, instead of responding. He can almost hear Spencer’s eyebrows raise, and he half-smiles at the familiarity of it.

“What about?” Spencer asks, not surprised, exactly. His voice sounds closer to curious. Ryan shrugs. 

“Band things,” he says. “I don’t think that he quite – it still feels to him like I’m in the band. Taking up space. Instead of –” Ryan cuts himself off, shaking his head and shrugging again.

“You think we’re leaving him out.” It’s not a question, and Ryan knows from Spencer’s tone that he’s not hurt, just that he’s thinking about it.

“Yeah, I mean. You kind of are. And he needs you more.” Ryan watches his fingers against his knees, and he figures that talking about Tom is easier than talking about himself. And just as truthful.

“Because of the Gerard thing?”

“Yeah, I – If you could even call it that.” When Ryan looks over at Spencer, he’s mid-eye-roll. “What?” he asks.

“You.” Spencer knocks his knee against Ryan’s, grinning.

“Spence –”

“Whatever, Ryan.” Spencer’s voice is amused, and Ryan curls his fingers into the sleeves of Gerard’s hoodie. Ryan knows what Spencer is thinking, but Spencer is wrong. Ryan is almost certain of it – certain enough, anyway.

“No, I mean, I really don’t think –” he says, trying again, but Spencer interrupts him.

“You never think you’re going to get what you want,” Spencer says. “You never have, not ever. 

“Yeah, well,” Ryan says, knowing that if he says _well, I don’t_ it will be a complete lie. Ryan’s just never gotten entirely used to expecting the good things to happen to him. Too much time spent waiting for the other shoe. “There’s nothing wrong with being cautious.”

“Someday, I swear, I’m going to teach you the difference between caution and pessimism. It’s a lesson well learned,” Spencer says, leaning into Ryan’s shoulder. “Seriously, dude, just go make babies or whatever.” Ryan shrugs, and Spencer snorts. It’s Ryan’s _thanks_ , and Spencer’s _you’re welcome_ , and Ryan just leans his head onto Spencer’s shoulder.

He should probably know by now that Spencer is the one who is always right.

“I’ll talk to Tom,” Spencer says, pausing for a moment. “We’re really proud of you, you know that?” he adds, almost like he’s not sure Ryan will want to hear it. Ryan glances up at him, caught between being grateful and surprised, but Spencer’s just looking off down the street.

“Yeah,” Ryan replies. He knows.

+

Ryan gets back to the hotel at 2:34 AM with a promise to Spencer that the four of them will have breakfast in the morning, before his flight back to New York. Gerard is on his bed staring at the ceiling when he opens the door, but is apparently still awake. He glances up when Ryan closes the door behind him.

“Have fun at your party?” Gerard asks, smiling crookedly and propping himself up on his elbows.

“Kind of. It was a little weird,” Ryan says, truthfully. He puts the key card, his wallet, and his cell phone on the dresser, before turning back to look at Gerard. “Didn’t see you around much.”

Gerard shrugs. “I default to using my band as guard dogs at parties with alcohol. It’s instinctive at this point.” He pauses for a moment, before holding out his hand. “C’mere,” he says.

Ryan blinks, but walks over to the bed, and lets Gerard pull him down. He can feel the warmth from Gerard’s skin, and he lets his feet press against Gerard’s calf, curling until he’s on his side.

“What?” he asks.

“You ready to be back in New York tomorrow?” Gerard asks, turning his head so that he’s looking at Ryan. Ryan’s not sure if that’s what’s on Gerard’s mind, really. He figures if Gerard wants to tell him, he will.

“Maybe,” is what he says. Gerard laughs.

“Very enthusiastic.”

“Trying not to think about it, actually,” Ryan admits. It’s not that he won’t be grateful to be back in his own space again, just that this is the first time in three years that he’s been left without a clear next step. He doesn’t think it will ever stop being frightening. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Gerard says, turning onto his side. His face is openly curious. Ryan looks at his smile, slightly crooked, and thinks about Spencer, and about how Gerard pulled him down onto the comforter. He thinks about Gerard’s skin warm under the soles of his feet.

“So, I’m not –” he starts, and then takes a deep breath. “Would you mind if I, um. How much would you mind if I kissed you?” He watches Gerard’s eyes widen and tries not to hide his face in his hands, or shift away too perceptibly.

“How much would I mind?” Gerard asks, like he hasn’t heard right. Ryan can’t actually speak anymore; it’s taking all of the energy he has not to just take it back, say _never mind_ and wonder for the rest of his life if it was self-preservation or cowardice. He just nods, instead. “Jesus Christ, Ryan,” Gerard says, like he’s out of breath or holding on for dear life, but Ryan has no idea what that means.

He doesn’t manage to hold in the flinch when Gerard’s fingers skate over his cheekbones, down the side of his face. 

“Gerard?” he asks, finally. He bites his lips, staying as perfectly still as he can. Gerard’s fingers tug on the end of his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. 

“I promise you, I wouldn’t mind,” Gerard says, his fingers pressing against the side of Ryan’s neck, fingernails scraping over his adam’s apple. “Not at all, I promise.”

“I – really?” Ryan asks, rabbit-still under the probing of Gerard’s fingers. He looks at the swoop of Gerard’s dark hair over his forehead, pale skin, and wonders how that could possibly be true. He’s Ryan, and this is _Gerard_.

“ _Yes_ , Ryan,” Gerard says, his voice soft and exasperated.

Ryan curls in close because he can’t help it, curving his finger in the hem of Gerard’s shirt, his knuckles brushing against ribs. He tucks his chin into the crook of Gerard’s neck.

“Okay,” He says, against the pale smoothness of Gerard’s skin. “Okay.”

+

The next morning, Ryan leaves while Gerard is still asleep, curled on his side with his legs tangled in the blue comforter. Ryan scribbles down a quick note on a post-it, and sticks it to the bedside table.

_gee,_ it says,

_sorry, early ihop date with the band. if I’m not back in by noon, send help._

_♥ ryan_

Gerard’s arm is still flung into the space where Ryan’s body had been, his fingers grasping at the bottom sheet. Ryan smiles, and heads for the door.

+

If Ryan is honest with himself, completely, he can accept that it hurts him less, now, to sit with Brendon’s arm around his shoulders, and Jon sleepy-smug across the table from him. Spencer smiles like he understands, pressing his foot against the side of Ryan’s ankle under the table, popping a piece of chocolate-chip pancake into his mouth. 

“So, you go back to New York, and than what?” Jon asks, yawning. The redness around his eyes suggests that he’s still hung over – from what Ryan can tell, he spent the latter part of the night knocking back shots with Tom. Brendon reaches across and steals a piece of French toast from Jon’s plate, dripping syrup onto the tabletop.

“I have no idea,” Ryan says.

“Come to Chicago and live with us, Ryan Ross,” Brendon says. “We still miss having you around.” Brendon’s arm tightens momentarily around Ryan’s shoulders, and then moves away as he picks up his glass of orange juice.

“I can’t,” Ryan says, half-apologetic and a little surprised. “New York is home.” He thinks about how he actually misses his apartment, shitty cell phone reception and all, and how he thinks he should hang more paintings on the walls, buy more furniture. How he should actually settle in, finally, after more than nine years. “Visit me, instead.” 

“We’ll be on tour soon, anyway, so I’ll see what I can do,” Spencer says. It’s not really a necessary part of his job that he go on tour with his band, but Spencer’s never gotten out of the habit, and no one bothers to correct him. There’s something like approval in his voice, and Ryan leans back against the plastic of the booth.

“Can’t get rid of us that easily,” Jon says, his voice firm. Ryan really, really knows this by now.

+

Gerard is packed when Ryan gets back to the hotel, sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching the television.

“Hi,” Ryan says, sitting on the edge of the bed, next to him. His smile is somewhat tentative, but he doesn’t back away.

“Hi,” Gerard replies, smiling. “I see you didn’t need help.” 

“I was less clingy than I thought I’d be,” Ryan says, and can see the understanding in Gerard’s eyes. Gerard knows bands and family – his are even more mixed than most people’s – and for all the times he’s had to leave them behind, for him it’s never been permanent. Gerard, Ryan is sure, believes that he can’t survive without them. Ryan is not so sure. If Ryan can do it, anyone can.

Gerard’s smile softens at the edges, and his fingers grasp Ryan’s chin. His touch is light, a barely-there hint of skin, and he turns Ryan’s head until their eyes meet. “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says; there is no hesitation in his voice. 

Ryan can feel his breath stutter over his tongue, staccato; he says, “Okay,” and he means it.

Gerard’s lips are dry and soft, and he’s firm, saying, _I’ve been waiting for this_ with only the pressure of his mouth, and Ryan thinks, _oh_. He thinks, _oh, okay_ , and he kisses back, Gerard’s pulse quick against his chin, apparent in the press of his fingers against Ryan’s skin. Ryan tangles his hands in the hem of Gerard’s shirt and opens his mouth, tugging on the cotton to pull Gerard closer.

“Paint me something, when we get home,” Ryan says against Gerard’s lips, and feels Gerard laugh, breath warm against his skin. Gerard’s stomach shudders as he runs his fingers up over it, shirt fabric bunching up almost awkwardly over his wrists.

“Write me something to paint,” Gerard says. Ryan makes a noise, only half in response, when Gerard’s fingers move from his chin to curl into his hair, and he shifts onto his knees, pushing at Gerard’s shirt. He pulls out of the kiss with a gasp, presses his face against Gerard’s neck, the slight slickness of first sweat, and he says,

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

+

The plane leaves at 5:40 PM for JFK, three years, six months, and twenty-eight days after Panic ends. Ryan hooks his hand into the crook of Gerard’s elbow, and doesn’t let go until landing.


End file.
